<< 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 >>                 Her will be done; but I haue sworne to loue, And with this vow, will nourishe my delight: Her scorne, my woe, nay, time may not remoue, A faithful zeale out of my troubled spright. Yea more then al, Ile Sacrifice my blood. And fire my bones, to doe my Mistresse Good.         Soranso, lìghted by a Page, in Orange Tawny, Watched and Greene, was the next that presented hinselfe: who upon his left side had a Hart of Crimson Granado Silke so artificially made and fastened his dublet, as if his body had opened, and his heart appeared, which felldowne at his Mistresse féete, upon such a Fortune as shée was bound to take it up, which opened, she might holde the pleasure of herself, readind this submission                 Even as the Hart deadly wound that hath, Retyres himselfe, with sighes to solace griefe: And with warme teares his gored sides doth bath, But finding mone to render smal reliefe: Impatient beast, he giues a heauy bray, And hastes the Death, that many would delay.                 So I whose Loue. beyond my hap doth mount, Whose thoughts as Thornes, yet prick me with Desire: Whose sute and zeale returns with no accompt: Whose hope is drye, set in a harte of Fire: Holde this for ease, foorthwith to spoyle the eye, That lookte and lou'de then in desoayre to dye.                 A happy Doome, if for law might stand, But me condemned, themselves may not dispatch: Thei lives and deathes, are in their Soueraigne hand. So mine in hers whose Lookes did me, attach: And therefore I, to pardon or to kill, Must yeeld my selfe, the Prisoner of her will L'ENVOY.                 Then Lady fayre, receiue what longes to thee, A fettered thrall, attyred with disgrace, And at thy feete, his wounded heart here see, And in the same, the Iamge of thy face? Which bleeding fresh, with throbs throwes forth his mone                 Rueth, rueth, deare Dame, for that I am your owne.  << 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 >>