The Arbor of Amitie wherin is comprised pleasant Pohems and pretie Poesies, set foorth by Thomas Howell |
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A farewell to his Friend T. Hooper.
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 | The Arbor of Amitie |  |
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A farewell to his Friend T. Hooper.
When as the soking sap,crept vp on sprates that budde:
And blosomde branch with goodly greene,
gan cloth the naked woode.
When Winters horie frostes,
milde March enforst to flee:
Then came my golden faithfull friend,
and sweetely cheered mee.
Whose face at first to vewe,
mee musde full wounderous:
For I assone had thought to see,
of Troy king Priamus.
He cheerde my drooping hart,
in heauie hap that stoode:
With him to be, with him to talke,
was all my chiefest foode.
Eche drop of liuely bloud,
that skipt in springing vaines,
Did leape for heape of passing sport
of hart, where ioy remaines.
Whome I haue thirsted oft,
in wishing hart full faine:
Now is he come, but O alas,
he sone is gone againe.
And wilt thou now departe,
from me on sodaine thus?
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and worlde growes worse and worse.
And though that flowers in May,
doe cheere the laughing fieldes:
Yet winters stormes with pinching colde,
the woodes of leaues beguiles.
Thus chaunge of time and place,
doth chaunge a mans degree:
And richest man in greatest ioy,
may chaunce in woe to die.
So when the howre was come,
that hope returnes me fro:
In heauie moning wayling hart,
farewell I say in wo.
Farewell my Damon deere,
now loth depart I sing:
And lingring steps against their will,
from thee my corps did bring.
And downe into my hart
there dropt the drops of care:
And inwardly my sobs I soope,
that rake and rent me thare.
Now all my ioy is gone,
and I in dumps am cast:
O would to God thy sweete abode,
might harmelesse euer last.
If will were now in force,
to thee my flight should bee?
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in heauenly harmonie.
But nowe we must depart,
faire wordes false friend men say,
Nor he that files his smoothed speeche,
is faithfull friend alway.
The God deuine thee keepe,
in firme felicitie:
And breake the bragges of curssed curres,
that iarre their teeth at thee.
That so thy fatall threede,
well spoon may stedfast stan,
To runne the race of Nestors yeeres,
a golden aged man.
And farewell friend in deede,
farewell my towre of trust:
Would I might alwayes bide with thee,
farewell since needes it must.
| The Arbor of Amitie | |