William Alexander

My faithfull thoughts no dutie do omit;
But being fraughted with most zealous cares,
Are euer busied for my loues affaires,
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Farewell sweet fancies, and once deare delights,
The treasures of my life, which made me proue
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I dream'd, the Nymph that ore my fancie raignes,
Came to a part whereas I paus'd alone;
Then said, what needs you in such sort to mone?
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Whil'st charming fancies moue me to reueale
The idle rauings of my brain-sicke youth,
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I enuie Neptune oft, not that his hands
Did build that loftie Ilions stately towers,
Nor that he Emperour of the liquid pow'rs,
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Lo, now reuiuing my disast'rous stile,
I prosecute the tenor of my fate,
And follow forth at dangers highest rate,
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Whil'st th'Apenin seems cloth'd with snows to vaunt,
As if that their pure white all hues did staine,
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Feare not, my Faire, that euer any chaunce
So shake the resolutions of my mind,
That like Demophon changing with the wind,
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Whil'st euery youth to entertaine his loue,
Did straine his wits as farre as they might reach,
And arming passions with a pow'rfull speach,
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Hvge hosts of thoughts imbattled in my brest,
Are euer busied with intestine warres,
And like to Cadmus earth-borne troupes at iarres,
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The heauens beheld that all men did despise,
That which the owner from the graue acquites,
That sleepe, the belly, and some base delights,
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How long shall I bestowe my time in vaine,
And sound the praises of that spitefull boy;
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When as the Sunne doth drinke vp all the streames,
And with a feruent heate the flowres doth kill;
The shadow of a wood, or of a hill,
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Oft haue I heard, which now I must deny,
That nought can last if that it be extreame;
Times dayly change, and we likewise in them,
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I wot not what strange things I haue design'd,
But all my gestures do presage no good;
My lookes are gastly-like, thoughts are my food,
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My face the colours whiles of death displayes,
And I who at my wretched state repine,
This mortall vaile would willingly resigne,
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A: What art thou, in such sort that wail'st thy fall,
And comes surcharg'd with an excessiue griefe?
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I hope, I feare, resolu'd, and yet I doubt,
I'm cold as yce, and yet I burne as fire;
I wot not what, and yet I much desire,
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What wonder though my count'nance be not bright,
And that I looke as one with clouds inclos'd?
A great part of the earth is interpos'd
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A flame of loue that glaunceth in those eyes,
Where maiestie with sweetnesse mixt remaines,
Doth poure so sweet a poyson in the veines,
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