FROM Tuscane came my Lady's worthy race;
Fair Florence was sometime their ancient seat;
The Western Isle, whose pleasant shore doth face
Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat;
Fostered she was, with milk of Irish breast:
Her Sire an earl, her Dame of princes' blood;
From tender years in Britain she doth rest
With King's child, where she tasteth costly food.
Hunsdon did first present her to my eyne;
Bright is her hue, and GERALDINE she hight:
Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine;
Windsor, alas! doth chase me from her sight.
Her beauty' of kind, her virtue from above;
Happy is he that can obtain her love!
LOVE, that liveth and reigneth in my thought,
That built his seat within my captive breast;
Clad in the arms, wherein with me he fought,
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.
She that methought to love and suffer pain,
My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desire,
With shamefaced cloke, to shadow and restrain,
Her smiling grace converteth strait to ire;
And coward Love, then to the heart apace
Taketh his flight,-whereas he lurks and plains
His purpose lost, and dare not shew his face:
For my Love's guilt, thus faultless bide I pains.
Yet from my Love shall not my foot remove;
Sweet is his death, that takes his end by Love!
SET me e'en where the Sun doth parch the green,
Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice;
In temperate heat, where he is felt and seen;
In presence press'd of people, mad or wise;
Set me in high, or yet in low degree;
In longest night, or in the shortest day;
In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be;
In lusty youth, or when the hairs are grey;
Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell,
On hill or dale, or on the foaming flood:
Thrall'd, or at large; wherever so I dwell,
Sick, or in health; in evil fame, or good;
Her's will I be, and only with this thought,
Content myself, although my chance be nought,
ALAS! So all things now do hold their peace,
Heaven and earth disturbed in nothing;
The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease;
The night's chair now the stars about doth bring;
Calm is the sea, the waves work less and less!
So am not I; whom Love, alas! doth wring,
Bringing before my face the great increase
Of my desires; whereas I weep and sing,
In joy and woe, as in a doubtful case:
For my sweet thoughts, some time do pleasure bring;
But, by and by, the cause of my disease
Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting;
When that I think what grief it is, again,
To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.
WHEN raging Love, with extreme pain,
Most cruelly distrains my heart;
When that my tears, as floods of rain,
Bear witness of my woful smart;
When sighs have wasted so my breath,
That I lie at the point of death:
I call to mind the Navy great
That the Grééks brought to Troy town,
And how the boisterous wind did beat
Their ships, and rend their sails adown ;
Till Agamemnon's daughter's blood
Appeased the goddess, that them withstood;
And how that, in those ten years war,
Full many a bloody deed was done,
And many a lord, that came full far,
There caught his bane (alas! too soon ;)
And many a good knight overcome,
Before the Greeks had Helen won;
Then think I thus-since such repair,
So long time war of valiant men;
Was all to win a lady fair,
Shall I not learn to suffer then?
And think my time well spent to be,
Serving a worthier wight than she!
Therefore I never will repent,
But pains contented still endure.
For like as when, rough winter spent,
The pleasant spring strait draweth in ure;
So, after raging storms of care,
Joyful at length may be my fare!
GEORGE BOLEYN, VISCOUNT ROCHFORD.
Lord Rochford is supposed to have been born about the year 1500. Being the brother of the unfortunate queen Anne Boleyn, and having participated in her courtly elevation, he was not suffered to escape the blow that was meditated for her destruction. The charms of his person, and the elegance of his acquirements, which endeared him to the highest ladies of his time, served only to accelerate his ruin. He was accused by his wife, a woman of the most abandoned character, of a criminal intercourse with his sister, Anne, and for this beheaded in May, 1536!
When committed to the Tower, "the poor Queen," says Lord Orford, "had so little idea of guilt, or of what she was accused, that she tenderly exclaimed-"Oh! where is my sweet brother?" It is some consolation to reflect, that Lady Rochford, the instrument of this execrable cruelty, by afterwards administering to the pleasures of Catherine Howard, incurred that sentence which her jealousy and malice had drawn on her virtuous and amiable relatives. She also perished on a scaffold; but under all the accumulated ignominy of guilt and detestation.
My Lute, awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste;
And end that I have now begun.
And when this song is sung and past,
My Lute be still; for I have done.
As to be heard where care is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone;
My song may pierce her heart as soon:
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan?~
No, no, my Lute! for I have done.
The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection;
So that I am past remedy:
Whereby, my Lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got, Of simple hearts, through Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won; Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my Lute and I have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, That mak'st but game on earnest pain; Think not alone, under the sun, Unquit to cause thy Lover's pain; Although my Lute and I have done.
May chanced thee lie wither'd, old,
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told:
Care then who list; for I have done!
And, then, may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy Lover's sigh and swoon; Then, shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done.
Now, cease my Lute! this is my last Labour that thou and I shall waste; And ended is that we begun; Now is this song both sung and past : My Lute, be still! for I have done.
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