A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions Garnished and decked with diuers dayntie deuises, right delicate and delightfull, to recreate eche modest minde withall. First framed and fashioned in sundrie formes, by diuers worthy workemen of late dayes: and now, ioyned together and builded up: By T. P. [i.e. Thomas Procter] |
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 | A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions |  |
And
with those wordes, his naked blade hee fiersly frō his side
Out drew, & through his brest, it forst wt mortal woūd to glide,
The streames of gory blood out glush, but hee wt manly hart,
Careles, of death and euery payne, that death could them imparte.
His Thisbies kercheefe hard hee straines, & kist with stedfast chere
And harder strainde, and ofter kist, as death him drew more nere
The Mulberies whose hue before, had euer white lo beene,
To blackish collour straight transformed, & black ay since are seen.
And Thisbie then who all that while, had kept the hollow tree,
Least hap her Louers long aboad, may seeme him mockt to bee.
Shakes of all feare, and passeth foorth in hope her loue to tell,
What terror great shee late was in, and wonderous case her fel:
But whē she doth approche ye tree, whose fruits trāsformed were
Abasht she stands, & musing much, how black they should appere.
Her Pyramus with sights profound, and broken voyce yt plained,
Shee hard: and him a kerchefe saw, how hee hit kist and strained:
Shee neuer drew, but whē the sword, and gaping wound she saw,
The anguish great, shee had therof, her caus'd to ouerthrow
In deadly swoone, and to her selfe shee beeing come agayne,
With pittious playnts, and deadly dole, her loue shee did cōplayne
That doone, shee did her body leane, and on him softly lay,
She kist his face, whose collour fresh, is spent and falne away:
Then to ye sword these woords she sayth: thou sword of bitter gall,
Thou hast bereaued mee my Loue, my comfort ioy and all.
With that deare blood (woes me) of his thy cursed blade doth shine
Wherfore thinke not thou canst be free, to shed the same of mine,
In life no meane, though wee it sought, vs to assemble could,
Death shall, who hath already his, & mine shall straight vnfolde.
And you O Gods, this last request, for ruthe yet graunt it mee,
That as one death wee should receiue, one Tombe our graue may bee,
With yt agayn she oft him kist, & then shee speaketh thus:
Out drew, & through his brest, it forst wt mortal woūd to glide,
The streames of gory blood out glush, but hee wt manly hart,
Careles, of death and euery payne, that death could them imparte.
His Thisbies kercheefe hard hee straines, & kist with stedfast chere
And harder strainde, and ofter kist, as death him drew more nere
The Mulberies whose hue before, had euer white lo beene,
To blackish collour straight transformed, & black ay since are seen.
And Thisbie then who all that while, had kept the hollow tree,
Least hap her Louers long aboad, may seeme him mockt to bee.
Shakes of all feare, and passeth foorth in hope her loue to tell,
What terror great shee late was in, and wonderous case her fel:
Abasht she stands, & musing much, how black they should appere.
Her Pyramus with sights profound, and broken voyce yt plained,
Shee hard: and him a kerchefe saw, how hee hit kist and strained:
Shee neuer drew, but whē the sword, and gaping wound she saw,
The anguish great, shee had therof, her caus'd to ouerthrow
In deadly swoone, and to her selfe shee beeing come agayne,
With pittious playnts, and deadly dole, her loue shee did cōplayne
That doone, shee did her body leane, and on him softly lay,
She kist his face, whose collour fresh, is spent and falne away:
Then to ye sword these woords she sayth: thou sword of bitter gall,
Thou hast bereaued mee my Loue, my comfort ioy and all.
With that deare blood (woes me) of his thy cursed blade doth shine
Wherfore thinke not thou canst be free, to shed the same of mine,
In life no meane, though wee it sought, vs to assemble could,
Death shall, who hath already his, & mine shall straight vnfolde.
And you O Gods, this last request, for ruthe yet graunt it mee,
That as one death wee should receiue, one Tombe our graue may bee,
With yt agayn she oft him kist, & then shee speaketh thus:
O Louer mine, beholde thy loue (alas) my Pyramus.
Yet ere I dye beholde mee once, that comfort not denye,
To her with thee that liu'd and lou'd, and eke with thee will dye.
The Gentilman with this, and as the lastest throwes of death,
Did pearce full fast at that same stroke, to end both life and breath
The voice hee knows, & euen therwith, castes vp his heauy eyes,
And sees his loue, hee striues to speake, but death at hand denyes.
Yet loue whose might, not thē was quēcht in spite of death gaue strēgth
And causde frō bottō of his hart, these words to pas at lēgth
(Alas my loue) and liue ye yet, did not your life define,
By Lyones rage the foe therof, and caus'd that this of mine
Is spent and past, or as I thinke, it is your soule so deare,
That seekes to ioy and honor both, my last aduenture heare.
Euen with that woord, a profound sighe, from bottom of his hart,
Out cast his corps and spirit of life, in sunder did depart:
Then Thisbie efte, with shrike so shrill as dynned in the skye,
Swaps down in swoone, shee eft reuiues, & hents ye sword hereby.
Wherwith beneath her pap (alas) into her brest shee strake,
Saying thus will I die for him, that thus dyed for my sake:
The purple Skarlet streames downe ran, & shee her close doth lay
Unto her loue him kissing still, as life did pyne away.
Yet ere I dye beholde mee once, that comfort not denye,
To her with thee that liu'd and lou'd, and eke with thee will dye.
The Gentilman with this, and as the lastest throwes of death,
Did pearce full fast at that same stroke, to end both life and breath
The voice hee knows, & euen therwith, castes vp his heauy eyes,
And sees his loue, hee striues to speake, but death at hand denyes.
Yet loue whose might, not thē was quēcht in spite of death gaue strēgth
And causde frō bottō of his hart, these words to pas at lēgth
(Alas my loue) and liue ye yet, did not your life define,
By Lyones rage the foe therof, and caus'd that this of mine
Is spent and past, or as I thinke, it is your soule so deare,
That seekes to ioy and honor both, my last aduenture heare.
Euen with that woord, a profound sighe, from bottom of his hart,
Out cast his corps and spirit of life, in sunder did depart:
Then Thisbie efte, with shrike so shrill as dynned in the skye,
Swaps down in swoone, shee eft reuiues, & hents ye sword hereby.
Saying thus will I die for him, that thus dyed for my sake:
The purple Skarlet streames downe ran, & shee her close doth lay
Unto her loue him kissing still, as life did pyne away.
| A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions | |