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William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.

To the Blest Evanthe

John Fletcher (1579–1625)

LET those complain that feel Love’s cruelty,

And in sad legends write their woes;

With roses gently ’has corrected me,

My war is without rage or blows:

My mistress’ eyes shine fair on my desires,

And hope springs up inflamed with her new fires.

No more an exile will I dwell,

With folded arms, and sighs all day,

Reckoning the torments of my hell,

And flinging my sweet joys away:

I am called home again to quiet peace;

My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease.

Yet, what is living in her eye,

Or being bless’d with her sweet tongue,

If these no other joys imply?

A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong:

To be your own but one poor month, I’d give

My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live.