Handful sig. Biiiir

[sig. Biiiir]

Faire lookes, sweet Dame, (10) Or else (alas) I take my bane:Nice talke, coying, Wil bring me sure to my ending, ¶ Too little is my skil, By pen (I saie) my loue to paint, (15) And when that my good will, My tong wold shew, my heart doth faint: Sith both the meanes do faile therefore, My loue for to expresse with lore: The torments of my inward smart. (20) You may well gesse within your hart: Wherefore, sweet wench, Some louing words, this heat to quench Fine smiles, smirke lookes, And then I neede no other lookes, +(25) ¶ Your gleams hath gript the hart, alas within my captiue breast: O how I feele the smart, And how I find my grief increast: My fancie is so fixt on you, (30) That none away the same can do: My deer vnlesse you it remooue: Without redresse I die for loue, Lament with me, Ye Muses nine, where euer be, (35) My life I loth, My Ioies are gone, I tel you troth, ¶ All Musicks solemne found, Of song, of else of instrument: