A Bitter Song to His Lady
O LADY amorous, Merciless lady, Full blithely play'd ye These your beguilings. So with an urchin A man makes merry, — In mirth grows clamorous, Laughs and rejoices, — But when his choice is To fall aweary, Cheats him with silence. This is Love's portion: — In much wayfaring With many burdens He loads his servants, But at the sharing, The underservice And overservice Are alike barren. As my disaster Your jest I cherish, And well may perish. Even so a falcon Is sometimes taken And scantly cautell'd; Till when his master At length to loose him, To train and use him, Is after all gone, — The creature's throttled And will not waken. Wherefore, my lady, If you will own me, O look upon me! If I'm not thought on, At least perceive me! O do not leave me So much forgotten! If, lady, truly You wish my profit, What follows of it Though still you say so? — For all your well-wishes I still am waiting. I grow unruly, And deem at last I'm Only your pastime. A child will play so, Who greatly relishes Sporting and petting With a little wild bird: Unaware he kills it, — Then turns it, feels it, Calls it with a mild word, Is angry after, — Then again in laughter Loud is the child heard. O my delightful My own my lady, Upon the Mayday Which brought me to you Was all my haste then But a fool's venture? To have my sight full Of you propitious Truly my wish was, And to pursue you And let love chasten My heart to the centre. But warming, lady, May end in burning. Of all this yearning What comes, I beg you? In all your glances What is't a man sees? — Fever and ague.
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