Sir Walter Ralegh

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies, A mortal foe and enemy to rest, An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, A way of error, a temple full of treason, In all effects contrary unto reason. A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers As moisture lend to every grief that grows; A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait. A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, A siren song, a fever of the mind, A maze wherein affection finds no end, A raging cloud that runs before the wind, A substance like the shadow of the sun, A goal of grief for which the wisest run. A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, A path that leads to peril and mishap, A true retreat of sorrow and despair, An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, A hope of that which reason doubtful deems. Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed, And for my faith ingratitude I find; And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed, Whose course was ever contrary to kind: False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu! Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

As you came from the holy land Of Walsingham, Met you not with my true love By the way as you came? “How shall I know your true love, That have met many one, I went to the holy land, That have come, that have gone?” She is neither white, nor brown, But as the heavens fair; There is none hath a form so divine In the earth, or the air. “Such a one did I meet, good sir, Such an angelic face, Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear By her gait, by her grace.” She hath left me here all alone, All alone, as unknown, Who sometimes did me lead with herself, And me loved as her own. “What’s the cause that she leaves you alone, And a new way doth take, Who loved you once as her own, And her joy did you make?” I have lov’d her all my youth; But now old, as you see, Love likes not the falling fruit From the withered tree. Know that Love is a careless child, And forgets promise past; He is blind, he is deaf when he list, And in faith never fast. His desire is a dureless content, And a trustless joy: He is won with a world of despair, And is lost with a toy. Of womenkind such indeed is the love, Or the word love abus’d, Under which many childish desires And conceits are excus’d. But true love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning, Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself never turning.