Come again! sweet love doth now invite Thy graces that refrain To do me due delight, To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die, With thee again in sweetest sympathy.
Come again! that I may cease to mourn Through thy unkind disdain; For now left and forlorn I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die In deadly pain and endless misery.
All the day the sun that lends me shine By frowns do cause me pine And feeds me with delay; Her smiles, my springs that makes my joy to grow, Her frowns the Winters of my woe.
All the night my sleeps are full of dreams, My eyes are full of streams. My heart takes no delight To see the fruits and joys that some do find And mark the storms are me assign'd.
Out alas, my faith is ever true, Yet will she never rue Nor yield me any grace; Her eyes of fire, her heart of flint is made, Whom tears nor truth may once invade.
Gentle Love, draw forth thy wounding dart, Thou canst not pierce her heart; For I, that do approve By sighs and tears more hot than are thy shafts Did tempt while she for triumph laughs.
3 comments:
Variant of "Mancunian," i.e. "from Manchester." Which my readership already knows.
I come again. From the First Booke of Ayres,
Come again! sweet love doth now invite
Thy graces that refrain
To do me due delight,
To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die,
With thee again in sweetest sympathy.
Come again! that I may cease to mourn
Through thy unkind disdain;
For now left and forlorn
I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die
In deadly pain and endless misery.
All the day the sun that lends me shine
By frowns do cause me pine
And feeds me with delay;
Her smiles, my springs that makes my joy to grow,
Her frowns the Winters of my woe.
All the night my sleeps are full of dreams,
My eyes are full of streams.
My heart takes no delight
To see the fruits and joys that some do find
And mark the storms are me assign'd.
Out alas, my faith is ever true,
Yet will she never rue
Nor yield me any grace;
Her eyes of fire, her heart of flint is made,
Whom tears nor truth may once invade.
Gentle Love, draw forth thy wounding dart,
Thou canst not pierce her heart;
For I, that do approve
By sighs and tears more hot than are thy shafts
Did tempt while she for triumph laughs.
That causes me pine. Mourning pine.
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