18
The first Booke of
Cant. I.
Captiu'd to fortune and frayle worldly fearesFly to your fayth for succour and sure ayde:Let me not die in languor and long teares.Why Dame (quoth he) what hath ye thus dismayd?What frayes ye, that were wont to comfort me affrayd?
Loue of your selfe, she saide, and deare constraintLets me not sleepe, but waste the wearie nightIn secret anguish and vnpittied plaint,Whiles you in carelesse sleepe are drowned quight.Her doubtfull words made that redoubted knightSuspect her truth: yet since no'vntruth he knew,Her fawning loue with foule disdainefull spightHe would not shend, but said, Deare dame I rew,That for my sake vnknowne such griefe vnto you grew.
Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground;For all so deare as life is to my hart,I deeme your loue, and hold me to you bound;Nelet vaine feares procure your needlesse smart,Where cause is none, but to your rest depart.Not all content, yet seemd she to appeaseHer mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art,And fed with words, that could not chose but please,So slyding softly forth, she turnd as to her ease.
Long after lay he musing at her mood,Much grieu'd to thinke that gentle Dame so light,For whose defence he was to shed his blood.At last dull wearines of former fightHauing yrockt a sleepe his irkesome spright,That troublous dreame gan freshly tosse his braine,With bowres, and beds, and ladies deare delight:But when he saw his labour all was vaine,With that misformed spright he backe returnd againe.
Cant.
