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And more, my ordinarie cares
Make me to thinke, how vnawares
Disdainfull Alnade was
Dishiuered and deuour’d by
A huge sea monster, that did lie
Hard by where he did passe.
But well away, that I doe see
Signes of no feare nor greefe in thee,
For this my sorrow knowes,
That he, thats not of loue afraide,
Can with no dangers be dismaide,
And feares not where he goes.
O then (my peerelesse Nymph) take heede,
Lest Cupid doe reuenge with speede,
To see himselfe contemned,
For being such a God of might,
He will not suffer, but will smite,
When he is once offended.
Come goe with me vnto the woods,
Where euery plant sprout foorth her buds,
And to the goodly fieldes,
Where we will spend the pleasant howers,
Amongst the faire and redolent flowers,
That nought but pleasure yeeldes.
If waters please thee, I will bring
Thee to so faire and fine a spring,
That to be first in praise
Amongst the rest, thy body white
To wash within her waters bright,
For thee it onely staies.
Disporting in this naked place,
Thou hast no vaile to hide thy face,
Nor shade from parching sunne,
Pitie it were thy beauties blaze,
Which enutous Titan feares to gaze,
By him should be vndone.
Heere hear’st thou no melodious voice,
But still a huge and fearefull noise
Of monsters hideous raues,
And seas, that rore like tumbling thunder,
Tost with the windes, that beate asunder
The proude and raging waues.
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What ioy and pleasure canst thou take,
To see the tossing billowes shake
A ship vpon the sand?
And then to see the broken plankes,
And carcases in pitious rankes
Come swimming to the land.
Come to the frithes, and forrests tall,
Where nature hath beene liberall
With many a pleasant seate.
Come to the coole and sweetest shades,
Where in greene pathes and open glades
We passe away the heate.
Flie, flie, those proude and swelling seas,
Come, come and thou shalt see what ease
We take, and how we sing
Ditties so sweete, that in suspence
We hold the rockes, and euery sence
Of euery liuing thing.
And though that some be full of pitie,
Loue forceth them to such a dittie,
For loue is full of paine:
Yet all the Shepherdes will I mooue,
To sing no mournefull songs of loue,
Onely to please thy vaine.
There maist thou reade in euety tree,
And euery meade that thou shalt see
The loues in knots disguis’d
Of iolly Shepherdes, and the names
Of chiefest Nymphes, and countrie dames
In curious sort deuis’d.
But it will make thee sad, I feare,
To see thy name ingrauen there,
By knowing it was carued
By him, whom thou didst euer blot
Out of thy minde, and hast forgot,
And with disfauours starued.
And though thine anger will be such,
Yet wilt thou maruell not so much
To see thy carued name,
As thou wilt woonder then to see,
That he doth loue and honour thee,
That there did write the same.
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