ABSTRACT
He servctl1 not a cruell one, as he had done of oldc And therfore is content, and chooseth still to serve Though hap should sweare that guerdonles the wretched wight
should sterve. The lot of Tantalus is Romeus lyke to thine For want of foode amid his foode, the myser styli doth pine. 340 As carefull was the mayde what way were best devise To !carne his name, that intertaind her in so gentle wise, Of whome her hart received so deepe, so wyde a wounde. An auncient dame she calde to her, and in her eare gan rounde. This olde dame in her youth, had nurst her with her mylke, With slender nedle taught her sow, and how to spin with silke. What twayne are those (quoth she) which prease unto the doore, Whose pages in theyr hand doe beare, two toorches light before? And then as eche of them had of his houshold name, So she him namde yet once agayne, the yong and wyly
housholdes rewe. The woord of Montegew, her joyes did overthrow, And straight in steade of happy hope, dyspayre began to growe. What hap have I quoth she, to love my fathers foe? What, am I wery of my wele? what, doe I wishe my woe? But though her grievous paynes distraind her tender hart Yet with an outward shewe of joye she cloked inward smart, 360 And of the courtlyke dames her leave so courtly tooke, That none dyd gesse the sodain change by changing of her looke. Then at her mothers hest to chamber she her hyde, So well she faynde, mother ne nurce, the hidden harrne descride. But when she should have slept as wont she was, in bed, Not halfc a winke of quiet slepe could harber in her hed For Joe, an hugy heape of dyvers thoughtes arise That rest have banisht from her hart, and slumber from her eyes. And now from side to side she tosseth and she turnes, And now for feare she shevereth, and now for love she
Thus dangers dred and love, within the mayden fought, The fight was feerce continuyng long by their contrary thought. In tourning mase of love she wandreth too and fro, Then standeth doubtfull what to doe, last overprest with woe. How so her fansies cease, her teares dyd never blyn, 1 With heavy cheere and wringed hands, thus doth her plaint
begyn. s8o Ah sily foole (quoth she) ycought in soottill snare, Ah wretched wench bewrapt in woe, ah caytife clad with care, Whence come these wandring thoughtes to thy unconstant brest By straying thus from raysons lore, that re[a]ve thy wonted rest? What if his suttel brayne to fayne have taught his tong, And so the snake that lurkes in grasse thy tender hart hath stong? What if with frendly speache the traytor lye in wayte, As oft the poysond hooke is hid, wrapt in the pleasant bayte? Oft under cloke of truth, hath falshod served her lust And toornd theyr honor into shame, that did so slightly
gestes. Sage writers say, the thoughts are dwelling in the eyne, Then sure I am, as Cupid raignes, that Romeus is myne. 410 The tong the messenger, eke call they of the mynd; So that I see he loveth me, shall I then be unkynd?
