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A Handful of Pleasant Delights/A proper sonet, wherin the Louer dolefully sheweth his grief to his Lady, and requireth pity

A proper sonet, wherin the Louer dolefully sheweth his grief to his L[ady]. and requireth pity.

To the tune of, Row wel ye Marriners.

AS one without refuge,
For life doth pleade with panting breath
And rufully the Iudge,
Beholds (whose doome grants life or death,)
So fare I now my onelie Loue,
Whom I tender as Turtle Doue,
Whose tender looks (O ioly ioy)
Shall win me sure your louing boy:
Faire lookes, sweet Dame,
Or else (alas) I take my bane:
Nice talke, coying,
Wil bring me sure to my ending,

Too little is my skil,
By pen (I saie) my loue to paint,
And when that my good will,
My tong wold shew, my heart doth faint:
Sith both the meanes do faile therefore,
My loue for to expresse with lore:
The torments of my inward smart.
You may well gesse within your hart:
Wherefore, sweet wench,
Some louing words, this heat to quench
Fine smiles, smirke lookes,
And then I neede no other lookes,

Your gleams hath gript the hart,
alas within my captiue breast:
O how I feele the smart,
And how I find my griefe increast:
My fancie is so fixt on you,
That none away the same can do:
My deer vnlesse you it remooue:
Without redresse I die for loue,
Lament with me,
Ye Muses nine, where euer be,
My life I loth,
My Ioies are gone, I tel you troth.

All Musicks solemne sound,
Of song, or else of instrument:
Me thinks they do resound,
With doleful tunes, me to lament,
And in my sleep vnsound, alas,
Me thinks such dreadful things to passe:
that out I crie in midst of dreames,
Wherwith my tears run down as streams,
O Lord, think I,
She is not here that should be by:
What chance is this,
That I embrace that froward is?

The Lions noble minde,
His raging mood (you know) oft staies,
When beasts do yeeld by kinde,
On them (forsooth) he neuer praies:
Then sithence that I am your thrall,
To ease my smart on you I call.
A bloudie conquest is your part,
To kill so kind a louing heart:
Alas remorce,
Or presently I die perforce:
God grant pitie,
Within your breast now planted be.

As nature hath you deckt,
with worthie gifts aboue the rest,
So to your praise most great,
Let pitie dwell within your brest,
That I may saie with heart and wil,
Lo, this is she that might me kil:
For why? in hand she held the knife,
And yet (forsooth) she saued my life.
Hey-ho, darling:
With lustie loue, now let vs sing,
Plaie on, Minstrel,
My Ladie is mine onelie girle.