![]() The watry Southwinde from the seaboard coste The world in darkness dwels, till that at last The face of heven, and the cleare ayre engroste, Love and despight attonce her courage kindled hath. Her helmet, to her Courser mounting light:īoth coosen passions of distroubled spright,Ĭonverting, forth she beates the dusty path Her dolour soone she ceast, and on her dight Which in thy troubled bowels raignes, and rageth ryfe. O doe thy cruell wrath and spightfull wrongĪt length allayk and stint they stormy strife, Threatning to swallow up my fearfull lyfe? Why do thy cruell billowes beat so strong,Īnd thy moyst mountaines each on others throng, ![]() Huge sea of sorrow and tempestuous griefe, Thereat she sighed deep, and after thus complaynd. That gainst the craggy clifts did loudly rore. Tho having vewed a while the surges hore, There she alighted from her light-foot beast,īad her old Squyre unlace her lofty creast Till that to the seacoast at length she her adrest. Searching all lands and each remotest part,įollowing the guydance of her blinded guest, So forth she rode without repose or rest, Thou have it lastly brought unto her Excellence. Till that by dew degrees and long pretence, My glorious Soveraines goodly auncestrie, That fame in trompe of gold eternally displayes. Which through the earth have spred their living prayse, Shew'dst thou, then in this royall Maid of yore, Making her seeke an unknowne Paramoure,įrom the worlds end, through many a bitter stowre:įrom whose two loynes thou afterwards did rayse Most famous fruits of matrimoniall bowre, Which the late world admyres for wondrous moniments.īut thy dread darts in none doe triumph more, Through deepe impression of thy secret might, To order them, as best to thee doth seeme, That over mortall minds hast so great might, In brutish minds, and filthy lust inflame,īut that sweet fit, that doth true beautie love,Īnd choseth vertue for his dearest Dame,Whence spring all noble deeds and never dying fame: Not that same, which doth base affections move Which long hath waited by the Stygian strond.Įmongst th'eternall spheres and lamping sky,Īnd thence pourd into men, which men call Love That thorough long langour, and hart-burning brame Ne ought it mote the noble Mayd avayle,īut that she still did waste, and still did wayle,
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