Syrenus' Song to Eugerius

Let now the goodly springtide make us merry.
And fields which pleasant flowers do adorn,
And vales, meads, woods, with lively colours flourish;
Let plenteous flocks the shepherd's riches nourish;
Let hungry wolves by dogs to death be torn,
And lambs rejoice, with pass'd winter weary;
Let every river's ferry
In waters flow and silver streams abounding:

And fortune, ceaseless wounding,
Turn now thy face, so cruel and unstable,
Be firm and favourable;
And thou that kill'st our souls with thy pretences.
Molest not, wicked Love, my inward senses.
Let country plainness live in joys not ended;
In quiet of the desert meads and mountains.
And in the pleasure of a country dwelling,
Let shepherds rest, that have distilled fountains
Of tears; prove not thy wrath, all pains excelling,
Upon poor souls, that never have offended.

Let thy flames be incended
In haughty courts, in those that swim in treasure,
And live in ease and pleasure.
And, that a sweetest scorn (my wonted sadness)
A perfect rest and gladness.
And hills and dales may give me, with offences
Molest not, wicked Love, my inward senses.

In what law find'st thou that the freest reason,
And wit, unto thy chains should be subjected,
And harmless souls unto thy cruel murder?
O wicked Love, the wretch that flieth furder
From thy extremes, thou plagu'st. O false, suspected,
And careless boy, that thus thy sweets dost season!
O vile and wicked treason.

Might not thy might suffice thee, but thy fuel
Of force must be so cruel
To be a lord, yet like a tyrant minded.
Vain boy, with error blinded?
Why dost thou hurt his life with thy offences,
That yields to thee his soul and inward senses?
He errs, alas! and foully is deceiv'd,
That calls thee god, being a burning fire,
A furious flame, a plaining grief and clamorous;
And Venus' son (that in the earth was amorous,
Gentle and mild and full of sweet desire,)
Who calleth him, is of his wits bereaved.

And yet that she conceived
By proof, so vile a son, and so unruly,
I say (and yet say truly)
That in the cause of harms, that they have framed.
Both justly may be blamed;
She that did breed him with such vile pretences.
He that doth hurt so much our inward senses.

The gentle sheep and lambs are ever flying
The ravenous wolves and beasts that are pretending
To glut their maws with flesh they tear asunder.
The milk-white doves at noise of fearful thunder
Fly home amain, themselves from harm defending;
The little chick, when puttocks are a-crying,
The woods and meadows dying
For rain of heaven (if that they cannot have it)
Do never cease to crave it.
So everything his contrary resisteth,
Only thy thrall persisteth
In suffering of thy wrongs without offences,
And lets thee spoil his heart and inward senses.

A public passion, Nature's laws restraining,
And which with words can never be declared;
A soul 'twixt love, and fear, and desperation,
And endless plaint, that shuns all consolation;
A spendless flame, that never is impaired,
A friendless death, yet life in death maintaining;
A passion, that is gaining
On him that loveth well, and is absented,
Whereby it is augmented;
A jealousy, a burning grief and sorrow, —
These favours lovers borrow
Of thee, fell Love; these be thy recompenses,
Consuming still their soul and inward senses.