 | Poems of Thomas, Lord Vaux |  |
VII. BEYNG DISDAINED, HE COMPLAINETH.
If frendlesse faith, if giltlesse thought maie shielde;
If simple truthe that neuer meant to swarue;
If deare desire accepted fruite doe yelde;
If greedie luste in loyall life doth sarue;
Then maie my plainte bewaile my heauie harme:
That seekyng calme, haue stumbled on the storme.
If simple truthe that neuer meant to swarue;
If deare desire accepted fruite doe yelde;
If greedie luste in loyall life doth sarue;
Then maie my plainte bewaile my heauie harme:
That seekyng calme, haue stumbled on the storme.
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My wonted cheare ecclipsèd by the cloude
Of deepe disdaine, through errour of reporte,
If wearie woe enwrappèd in the shroude,—
Lies slaine, by tongue of the vnfrendly sorte;
Yet heauen and yearth, and all that Nature wrought,
I call to vowe of my vnspotted thought.
Of deepe disdaine, through errour of reporte,
If wearie woe enwrappèd in the shroude,—
Lies slaine, by tongue of the vnfrendly sorte;
Yet heauen and yearth, and all that Nature wrought,
I call to vowe of my vnspotted thought.
No shade I seeke, in parte to shield my tainte,
But simple truthe, I hunte no other sute:
On that I gage, the issue of my plainte;
If that I quaile, let Justice me confute:
If that my place emongs the giltlesse sorte,
Repaie by dome, my name and good reporte.
But simple truthe, I hunte no other sute:
On that I gage, the issue of my plainte;
If that I quaile, let Justice me confute:
If that my place emongs the giltlesse sorte,
Repaie by dome, my name and good reporte.
Goe, heauie verse; pursue desirèd grace,
Where pitie shrinde in cell of secret brest,
Awaits my haste the rightfull lot to place,
And lothes to see the giltlesse man opprest:
Whose vertues greate, hath crounde her more with fame
Then kyngly state, though largely shine the same.
Where pitie shrinde in cell of secret brest,
Awaits my haste the rightfull lot to place,
And lothes to see the giltlesse man opprest:
Whose vertues greate, hath crounde her more with fame
Then kyngly state, though largely shine the same.
| Poems of Thomas, Lord Vaux | |