No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, No man doubts, whom beauty killeth, And in whom fair death proceedeth, So that I, in her beams dying, Glory trying, Tho' in pain, cannot complain. No, no, no, no. To the Tune of a Neapolitan Villanel. ALL my fenfe thy fweetness gained; Thy fair hair my heart inchained; My poor reason thy words moved, Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan: Now thy sweetness fowre is deemed; Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan, For no fair fign can credit win, No more in thy sweetness glory, Dan, dan, Lay not thy colours more to view, Woe to me, alas! fhe weepeth! Dan, dan, And, wretched I, muft yield to this; Sweetness!, fweetly pardon folly; And all Dan, dan, Dan, dan, my life I will confefs, The lefs I love, I live the lefs. Tranflated Tranflated out of La DIANA de MONTEMAYOR, in Spanish: Where Sireno, a Shepherd, pulling out a little of his Mistress Diana's Hair, wrapped about with Green Silk, who now had utterly forsaken him; To the Hair he thus bewailed himself. WHAT changes here, O Hair! I fee, fince I faw you? How ill fits you this green to wear, Tho' hope were mix'd with fear, Ah, Hair! how many days My Diana made me fhow, With thousand pretty childish plays, If I were you or no : Alas! how oft with tears, O tears of guileful breast! She feemed full of jealous fears, Whereat I do but jest? Tell me, O Hair of gold, If I then faulty be, That truft thofe killing eyes I would, Have you not feen her mood, Who hath fuch beauty feen In one that changeth fo? Or where one's love fo conftant been, Who ever faw fuch woe? Ah, Hair! are you not griev'd To come from whence you be, Seeing, how once you faw I liv'd, To fee me as you fee? On fandy bank of late, I faw this woman fit ; Where, Sooner die than change my fate, She with her finger writ: Thus my belief was ftaid, Behold Love's mighty hand On things were by a woman faid, And written in the fand. The The fame Sireno in MONTE-MAYOR, holding. his Miftrefs's Glafs before her, looking upon her while she viewed herself, thus fang: Ο F this high grace, with blifs conjoyn'd, Sweet Lady, you remain well paid; In face and eyes unmatched being, Nor think the match unev'nly made, The glass to you but gives a shade, For fuch a thought, most highly prized, |