TO
A
LOVER
.
BY
—
.
WHY
didst
thou
rase
such
woeful
wayle
,
And
waste
in
briny
tears
thyne
days
;
Cause
shee
,
that
wont
to
flout
and
rayl
,
At
last
gave
proof
of
woman's
waies
?
Shee
did
,
in
soothe
,
display
the
hearte
That
mought
have
wroughte
thee
greater
smarte
.
Why
thank
her
then
,
not
weepe
nor
mone
,
Let
others
guard
their
careless
hearte
;
And
praise
the
day
that
thus
made
knowne
The
faithless
hold
on
woman's
art
.
Their
lips
can
gloze
and
gain
suche
roote
,
That
gentle
youthe
hathe
hope
of
fruite
.
But
,
ere
the
blossom
faire
dothe
rise
,
To
shoot
its
sweetness
o'er
the
taste
,
Creepeth
disdain
in
canker-wise
,
And
chilling
scorne
the
fruite
dothe
blaste
.
There
is
no
hope
of
all
our
toyl
,
There
is
no
fruit
from
such
a
soil
.
Give
o'er
thy
playnt
,
the
danger's
o'er
,
Shee
might
have
poyson'd
all
thyne
lyfe
;
Such
wayward
mynde
had
bred
thee
more
Of
sorrowe
,
had
she
prov'd
a
wyfe
.
Leave
her
to
meet
all
hopeless
meed
,
And
bless
thyself
that
so
art
freed
.
No
youthe
shall
sue
suche
one
to
winne
,
Unmark'd
by
all
the
shyning
fair
,
Save
for
her
pride
and
scorn
,
such
sinne
As
hearts
of
love
can
never
bear
;
Like
leafless
plant
in
blasted
shade
,
So
liveth
shee
a
barren
mayde
,