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EBBA 31186

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
Being the Regrate of a true Lover, for his
Mistriss Unkindnesse.
To a new Tune, Ile ever love the more.

I Wish I were those Gloves, dear heart,
which could thy hands inshrine;
Then should no sorrow grief nor smart,
molest this heart of mine:
But since the Fates doth this deny,
which leaves me to deplore,
My dribling eyes shall never dry,
until thou love me more.

But O that I might shrouded be
within [these] arms of thine,
And that my soul might say of thee,
that thou were freely mine:
[Then prostrate at thy] feet I would,
thee doub[t]lesse still ad[o]re,
And so in spight of Fate I should,
assay to love thee more.

I shall defy that mortal Wight,
enjoy thee w[h]o so will,
Then I to soar an higher flight
in love, or mount me till:
But since to one I must resigne,
thee quite and give thee ore,
Ile love him, for that face of thine,
which made me love thee more.

Nay sure some sacred Angel haunts,
within that heart of thine,
Whose secret power my soul enchants,
which from thy eyes do shine:
But O that I could thee inflame,
I did him implore,
That so by reason of the same,
thou yet might love me more.

But happie is thy servent sure,
that such a love enjoies,
Whose smiles does all disasters cure,
whos[e] frowns breeds all annoies:
As Phebus breaking through the cloud,
gives heat and light in store,
So when thou doth thine eyes unshrude,
they make me love thee more.

I wish I were a Hauk to soar
within the skie of love,
And that thou metamorphosd were
into a turtle Dove:
There would I catch thee with delight,
with pleasure plum thee ore,
And so should none beneath our flight,
attempt to love thee more.

Thy face is as a heaven which holds
two shining suns of love,
The which thine eye-lids clouds infold,
in ivorie Orbs they move:
Their absence makes me like to die,
their presence burns me sore,
So still in these extreams I lie,
and yet must love thee more.

To lodge betwixt these ivorie hills,
which in thy bosom dwells,
From whence the sugred nectar trils
in sweetness that excels:

There would I surfeit with delight,
my self, and nere give ore,
Till love should so our souls unite,
as ay to love thee more.

I like the Salamander am,
that in the fire remains,
And not consumed with the flame,
I live in pleasant pains:
O that these bodies were to act,
as free as minds to soare,
Then surelie I at length would make
my Lasse to love me more.

Since of the days desires our dreams,
the true ideas are,
I wish that of mine eyes, the beams
in sleep inclosed were:
That slumbring I might thee possess,
whom daylie I adore,
For waking I dare scarce transgress,
and yet must love thee more.

But yet if thou would condescend
unto my dear request.
And suffer me my health to spend,
upon thy candid breast:
Then surelie I, or ever let,
imperiouslie would soare,
As praising thee at highest rate,
and so would love thee more.

Some comfort unto those belong,
who commen lovers be,
Since they upon surmise of wrong,
can set their fancie free:
But should I die by thy disdain,
which others would abhore,
My pure affection shall unstaind,
aspire to love thee more.

Then let not black ingratitude,
so dear a Saint disgrace,
For it would taint the finest blood,
and stain the fairest face:
Since thou mayest love, and yet be chast,
and still behind have store,
Then slight not him, who doth attest
the gods, hel love thee more.


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