Tongue, never cease to sing Fidessa's praise; Heart, however she deserve conceive the best; Eyes, stand amazed to see her beauty's rays; Lips, steal one kiss and be for ever blest; Hands, touch that hand wherein your life is closed; Breast, lock up fast in thee thy life's sole treasure; Arms, still embrace and never be disclosed; Feet, run to her without or pace or measure; Tongue, heart, eyes, lips, hands, breast, arms, feet, Consent to do true homage to your Queen, Lovely, fair, gentle, wise, virtuous, sober, sweet, Whose like shall never be, hath never been! O that I were all tongue, her praise to shew; Then surely my poor heart were freed from woe!
Sore sick of late, nature her due would have, Great was my pain where still my mind did rest; No hope but heaven, no comfort but my grave, Which is of comforts both the last and least; But on a sudden, the Almighty sent Sweet ease to the distressed and comfortless, And gave me longer time for to repent, With health and strength the foes of feebleness; Yet I my health no sooner 'gan recover, But my old thoughts, though full of cares, retained, Made me, as erst, become a wretched lover Of her that love and lovers aye disdained. Then was my pain with ease of pain increased, And I ne'er sick until my sickness ceased.
He that would fain Fidessa's image see, My face of force may be his looking-glass. There is she portrayed and her cruelty, Which as a wonder through the world must pass. But were I dead, she would not be betrayed; It's I, that 'gainst my will, shall make it known. Her cruelty by me must be bewrayed, Or I must hide my head and live alone. I'll pluck my silver hairs from out my head, And wash away the wrinkles of my face; Closely immured I'll live as I were dead, Before she suffer but the least disgrace. How can I hide that is already known? I have been seen and have no face but one.
Fie pleasure, fie! Thou cloy'st me with delight; Sweet thoughts, you kill me if you lower stray! O many be the joys of one short night! Tush, fancies never can desire allay! Happy, unhappy thoughts! I think, and have not. Pleasure, O pleasing pain! Shows nought avail me! Mine own conceit doth glad me, more I crave not; Yet wanting substance, woe doth still assail me. Babies do children please, and shadows fools; Shows have deceived the wisest many a time. Ever to want our wish, our courage cools. The ladder broken, 'tis in vain to climb. But I must wish, and crave, and seek, and climb; It's hard if I obtain not grace in time.