The forsaken Lover describeth and forsaketh Love

O LOATHSOME place! where I

Have seen, and heard my dear;

When in my heart her eye

Hath made her thought appear,

By glimpsing with such grace,—

As fortune it ne would

That lasten any space,

Between us longer should.

As fortune did advance

To further my desire;

Even so hath fortune’s chance

Thrown all amidst the mire.

And that I have deserved,

With true and faithful heart,

Is to his hands reserved,

That never felt the smart.

But happy is that man

That scaped hath the grief,

That love well teach him can,

By wanting his relief.

A scourge to quiet minds

It is, who taketh heed;

A common plage that hinds;

A travail without meed.

This gift it hath also:

Whoso enjoys it most,

A thousand troubles grow,

To vex his wearied ghost.

And last it may not long;

The truest thing of all:

And sure the greatest wrong,

That is within this thrall.

But since thou, desert place,

Canst give me no account

Of my desired grace,

That I to have was wont;

Farewell! thou hast me taught,

To think me not the first

That love hath set aloft,

And casten in the dust.