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Normale Version: From "The pleasant Fable of Ferdinando" (4)
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LOve, hope, and death, do stirre in me such strife,
As never man but I led such a life.
First burning love doth wound my hart to death,
And when death comes at call of inward griefe,
Colde lingering hope doth feede my fainting breath
Against my will, and yeeldes my wound reliefe:
So that I live, but yet my life is such,
As death would never greve me halfe so much.
No comfort then but only this I tast,
To salve such sore, such hope will never want,
And with such hope, such life will ever last,
And with such life, such sorrowes are not skant.
Oh straunge desire, O life with torments tost
Through too much hope, mine onely hope is lost.


...



THat selfe same day, and of that day that hower,
When she doth raigne, that mocks Vulcan the smith,
And thought it meete to harbor in hir bower,
Some gallant gest for hir to dally with,
That blessed houre, that bliss and happie daye,
I thought it meete, with hastie steppes to go
Unto the lodge, wherin my Lady laye,
To laugh for joye, or else to weepe for woe.
And lo, my Lady of hir wonted grace,
First lent hir lippes to me (as for a kisse)
And after that hir bodye to imbrace,
Wherein dame nature wrought nothing amisse.
What followed next, gesse you that know the trade,
For in this sort, my F[r]ydaies feast I made.



...


THE stately Dames of Rome, their Pearles did weare,
About their neckes to beautifie their name:
But she (whome I doe serve) hir pearles doth beare,
Close in hir mouth, and smiling shewe, the same.
No wonder then, though ev'ry word she speakes,
Jewell seeme in judgement of the wise,
Since that hir sugred tongue the passage breakes,
Betweene two rockes, bedecks with pearles of prire.
Hir haire of golde, hir front of Ivory,
(A bloody heart within so white a breast)
Hir teeth of Pearle lippes Rubie, christall eye,
Needes must I honour hir above the rest:
Since she is fourmed of none other moulde,
But Rubie, Christall, Ivory, Pearle, and Golde.


...


WIth hir in armes that had my hart in holde,
I stoode of late to pleade for pitie so:
And as I did hir lovelie lookes beholde,
Shee cast a glaunce upon my rivall foe.
His fleering face provoked hir to smile,
When my salt teares were drowned in disdaine:
He glad, I sad, he laught, (alas the while)
I wept for woe: I pin'd for deadlie paine.
And when I sawe none other boote prevaile,
But reason rule must guide my skilfull minde:
Why then (quod I) olde proverbes never faile,
For yet was never good Cat out of kinde.
Nor woman true but even as stories tell,
Wonne with an egge, and lost againe with shell.



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