A Sophisticated Lover

Suche waywarde wais hath love, that moste parte in discorde
Our willes do stand, wherby our hartes but seldom dooth accorde.

Disceyte is his delight, and to begyle and mocke
The symple hertes which he doth stryke with froward, dyvers stroke.

He cawseth hertes to rage with golden burninge darte,
And doth alaye with ledden cold agayne the tothers harte.

Hot gleams of burning fyre, & easye sparkes of flame,
In balaunce of vnegall weight he pondereth by ame.

Ffrom easye fourde, where I might wade & passe full well,
He me withdrawes, and doth me drive into the darke, diep well;

And me withholdes where I am cald and offerd place;
And wooll that still my mortall foo I do beseche of grace.

He lettes me to pursue a conquest well nere woon,
To follow where my paynes wer spilt or that my sute begune.

Lo! by these rules I know how sone a hart can turne
From warr to peace, from trewce to stryf, and so again returne.

I knowe how to convert my will in others lust;
Of litle stuff vnto my self to weyve a webb of trust;

And how to hide my harme with soft dissembled chere,
When in my face the paynted thoughtes wolde owtwardlye appere.

I know how that the blood forsakes the faas for dredd,
And how by shame it staynes agayne the cheke with flaming redd.

I knowe vnder the grene, the serpent how he lurckes;
The hamer of the restles forge, I know eke how yt workes.

I know, and can be roote, the tale that I wold tell,
But ofte the wordes come forth a wrye of hym that loveth well.

I know in heat and cold the lover how he shakes,
In singinge how he can complayne, in sleaping how he wakes,

To languishe without ache, sickles for to consume,
A thousand thinges for to devyse resolving all hys fume.

And thoughe he lyke to see his ladies face full sore,
Suche pleasure as delightes his eye doth not his health restore.

I know to seke the tracke of my desyred foo,
And feare to fynd that I do seke; but chef elye this I know,

That lovers must trans forme into the thing beloved,
And live — alas, who colde beleve! — with spryte from lief removed

I know in hartye sighes and lawghters of the splene
At ones to chaunge my state, my will, & eke my colour clene.

I know how to disceyve myself withouten helpp;
And how the lyon chastysed is by beating of the whelpp.

In standing nere my fyer, I know how that I frese;
Ff arr of, to burn; in both to wast, & so my lief to lese.

I know how love doth rage vppon the yeldon mynd,
How small a nett may take & mashe a harte of gentle kynd;

Which seldome tasted swete, to seasoned heaps of gall,
Revyved with a glyns of grace olde sorowes to let fall.

The hidden traynes I know, & secret snares of love;
How sone a loke may prynt a thought that never will remoue.

That slipper state I know, those sodayne tournes from welthe,
That doutfull hope, that certayne woo, & sure dispaire of helthe.