Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.
To Amarantha, That She Would Dishevel Her Hair
Amarantha sweet and fair,
Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee, let it fly.
Let it fly as unconfined
As its calm ravisher, the wind,
Who hath left his darling, th’ East,
To wanton o’er that spicy nest.
Every tress must be confessed
But neatly tangled at the best,
Like a clue of golden thread,
Most excellently raveled.
Do not then wind up that light
In ribands, and o’ercloud in night;
Like the sun in’s early ray,
But shake your head and scatter day.
See, ‘tis broke! Within this grove,
The bower and the walks of love,
Weary lie we down and rest
And fan each other’s panting breast.
Here we’ll strip and cool our fire
In cream below, in milk-baths higher;
And when all wells are drawn dry,
I’ll drink a tear out of thine eye.
Which our very joys shall leave,
That sorrows thus we can deceive;
Or our very sorrows weep,
That joys so ripe so little keep.
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