VENEMOUS tongue, tipt with vile adders sting,
Of that self kynd with which the Furies fell
Their snaky heads doe combe, from which a spring
Of poysoned words and spightfull speeches well;
Let all the plagues, and horrid paines of hell
Upon thee fall for thine accursed hyre;
That with faise forged lyes, which thou didst tell,
In my true Love did stirre up coals of yre;
The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre,
And, eatching hold on thine own wicked hed,
Consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire
In my sweet peace such breaches to have bred!
Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward,
Due to thy selfe, that it for me prepard!
SINCE I did leave the presence of my Love,
Many long weary dayes I have out-worne;
And many nights, that slowly seem'd to move
Theyr sad protract from evening untill morn.
For, when as day the heaven doth adorne,
I wish that night the noyous day would end:
And, when as night hath us of light forlorne,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile,
Bat farther seemes his terme still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a myle.
So sorrowe still doth seem too long to last;
But ioyous houres do fly away too fast.
SINCE I have lackt the comfort of that light,
The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray;
I wander as in darknesse of the night,
Affrayd of every dangers least dismay.
Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
When others gaze upon theyr shadowes vayne,
But th' only image of that heavenly ray,
Whereof some glance doth in mine eie remayne;
Of which beholding the idea playne,
Through contemplation of my purest part,
With light thereof I doe my self sustayne,
And thereon feed my love-affamisht hart.
But, with such brightnesse whlyest I fill my mind,
I starve my body, and mine eyes doe blynd.
LIKE as the culver, on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
And, in her songs, sends many a wishful vow
For his returne that seemes to linger late:
So I alone, now left disconsolate,
Mourn to my selfe the absence of my Love;
And, wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove:
Ne ioy of ought, that under heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me, but her own ioyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasaunce to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life, that wants such lively blis
Upon the death of the noble and vertuous
DOUGLAS HOWARD,
Daughter and heire of Henry Lord Howard, Viscount Byndon, and wife of Arthur Gorges, Esquier.
To the right honorable and vertuous lady,
MARQUESSE OF NORTHAMPTON.
1 HAVE the rather presumed humbly to offer unto your Honour the dedication of this little Poëme, for that the noble and vertuous gentlewoman of whom it is written, was by match, neere alied, and in affection greatly devoted, unto your Ladiship. The occasion why I wrote the same, was as well the great good fame which I heard of her deceassed, as the particular good will which I bear unto her husband Master Arthur Gorges, a lover of learning and vertue, whose house, as your Ladiship by marriage hath honoured, so doe I find the name of them, by many notable records, to be of great antiquitie in this realme, and such as have ever borne themselves with honourable reputation to the world, and unspotted loyaltie to their prince and countrey: besides, so lineally are they descended from the Howards, as that the Lady Anne Howard, eldest daughter to John
Duke of Norfolke, was wife to Sir Edmund, mother to Sir Edward, and grand-mother to Sir William and Sir Thomas Gorges, Knightes: and therefore I doe assure my selfe that no due honour done to the White Lyon, but will be most gratefull to your Ladi-hip, whose husband and children do so neerly participate with the bloud of that noble family. So in all dutie, I recommend this Pamphlet, and the good acceptance thereof, to your honourable favour and protection. London, this first of lanuarie, 1591. Your Honours humbly ever,
WHAT-EVER man he be whose heavy mind,
With griefe of mournful great mishap opprest,
Fit matter for his cares increase would fynd,
Let reade the rufull plaint herein exprest,
Of one, I weene, the wofulst man alive,
Even sad Alcyon, whose empierced brest
Sharpe sorrowe did in thousand peeces rive.
But whoso else in pleasure findeth sense,
Or in this wretched life doeth take delight,
Let him be banisht farre away from hence;
Ne let the Sacred Sisters here be hight,
Though they of sorrowe heavilie can sing;
For even their heavie song would breed delight;
But here no tunes, save sobs and grones, shall ring.
|