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Farewell with a mischeife

Thy byrth, thy beautie, nor thy brave attyre,
(Disdaynfull Dame, which doest me double wrong)
Thy hygh estate, which sets thy harte on fire,
Or newe found choyse, which cannot serve thee long
Shall make me dread, with pen for to reherse,
Thy skittish deedes, in this my parting verse.

For why thou knowest, and I my selfe can tell,
By many vowes, how thou to me wert bound:
And how for joye, thy hart did seeme to swell,
And in delight, how thy desires were drownd.
When of thy will, the walles I did assayle,
Wherin fond fancie, fought for mine avayle.

And though my mind, have small delight to vaunt,
Yet must I vowe, my hart to thee was true:
My hand was alwayes able for to daunt,
Thy slaundrous fooes, and kepe theyr tongues in mew.
My head (though dull) was yet of such devise,
As might have kept thy name alwayes in price.

And for the rest my body was not brave,
But able yet, of substaunce to allaye,
The raging lust, wherein thy limbes did rave,
And quench the coales, which kindled thee to playe.
Such one I was, and such alwayes wyl be,
For worthy Dames, but then I meane not thee.

For thou hast caught a proper paragon,
A theefe, a cowarde, and a Peacocke foole:
An Ase, a milkesop, and a minion,
Which hath no oyle, thy furyous flames to coole,
Such on he is, a pheare for thee most fit,
A wandring gest, to please thy wavering wit.

A theefe I counte him for he robbes us both,
Thee of thy name, and me of my delight:
A coward is he noted where he goeth,
Since every child is match to him in might.
And for his pride no more, but marke his plumes,
The which to princke, he dayes and nights consumes.

The rest thy selfe, in secret sorte can judge,
He rides not me, thou knowest his sadell best:
And though these tricks of thine, mought make me grudg,
And kindle wrath, in my revenging brest
Yet of my selfe, and not to please thy mind,
I stand content, my rage in rule to binde.

And farre from thee now must I take my flight,
Where tongues maye tell, (and I not see) thy fall:
Where I maye drinke these druggs of thy dispite,
To purge my Melancholike mind with all.
In secrete so, my stomacke will I sterve,
Wishing thee better than thou doest deserve.

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Farewell with a mischeife - GEORGE GASCOIGNE
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