Shall I die?

Shall I die? Shall I fly Lover's baits and deceits sorrow breeding? Shall I tend? Shall I send? Shall I sue, and not rue my proceeding? In all duty her beauty Binds me her servant for ever. If she scorn, I mourn, I retire to despair, joining never.

Yet I must vent my lust And explain inward pain by my love conceiving. If she smiles, she exiles All my moan; if she froan, all my hopes deceiving - Suspicious doubt, O keep out, For thou art my tormentor. Fie away, pack away; I will love, for hope bids me venture. 'Twere abuse to accuse My fair love, ere I prove her affection. Therefore try! Her reply Gives me joy - or annoy, or affliction. Yet howe'er, I will bear Her pleasure with patience, for beauty Sure will not seem to blot Her deserts, wronging him doth her duty.

In a dream it did seem - But alas, dreams do pass as do shadows - I did walk, I did talk With my love, with my dove through fair meadows. Still we passed till at last We sat to repose us for pleasure. Being set, lips met, Arms twined, and did bind my heart's treasure.

Gentle wind sport did find Wantonly to make fly her gold tresses. As they shook I did look, But her fair did impair all my senses. As amazed, I gazed On more than a mortal complexion. You that love can prove Such force in beauty's inflection. Next her hair, forehead fair, Smooth and high; neat doth lie, without wrinkle, Her fair brows; under those, Star-like eyes win love's prize when they twinkle. In her cheeks who seeks Shall find there displayed beauty's banner; O admiring desiring Breeds, as I look still upon her.

Thin lips red, fancy's fed With all sweets when he meets, and is granted There to trade, and is made Happy, sure, to endure still undaunted. Pretty chin doth win Of all their culled commendations; Fairest neck, no speck; All her parts merit high admirations.

Pretty bare, past compare, Parts those plots which besots still asunder. It is meet naught but sweet Should come near that so rare 'tis a wonder. No mis-shape, no scape Inferior to nature's perfection; No blot, no spot: She's beauty's queen in election.

Whilst I dreamt, I, exempt From all care, seemed to share pleasure's plenty; But awake, care take - For I find to my mind pleasures scanty. Therefore I will try To compass my heart's chief contenting. To delay, some say, In such a cause causeth repenting.