The Complete Works of George Gascoigne In Two Volumes |
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The fruite of Fetters: with the complaint
of the greene Knight, and his Farewell to Fansie. |
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 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
367
The fruite of Fetters: with the complaint of the greene Knight, and his Farewell to Fansie.
Great be the greefes which bruze the boldest brests,
And al to seelde we see such burdens borne,
For cruell care (which reaveth quiet rests)
Hath oftentimes the woorthiest willes foreworne,
And layed such weight upon a noble harte,
That wit and will have both given place to smarte.
And al to seelde we see such burdens borne,
For cruell care (which reaveth quiet rests)
Hath oftentimes the woorthiest willes foreworne,
And layed such weight upon a noble harte,
That wit and will have both given place to smarte.
For proofe wherof I tel this woful tale,
(Give eare that list, I force no frolicke mindes)
But such as can abide to heare of bale,
And rather rue the rage which Fansie findes,
Than scorne the pangs which may procure their pine,
Let them give eare unto these rimes of mine.
(Give eare that list, I force no frolicke mindes)
But such as can abide to heare of bale,
And rather rue the rage which Fansie findes,
Than scorne the pangs which may procure their pine,
Let them give eare unto these rimes of mine.
I teare my time (ay me) in prison pent,
Wherin the floure of my consuming yeares,
With secret grief my reason doth torment,
And frets it self (perhaps) with needlesse feares:
For whyles I strive against the streame too fast,
My forces faile, and I must downe at last.
Wherin the floure of my consuming yeares,
With secret grief my reason doth torment,
And frets it self (perhaps) with needlesse feares:
For whyles I strive against the streame too fast,
My forces faile, and I must downe at last.
The hastie Vine for sample might me serve,
Which climbes too high about the loftie tree,
But when the twist his tender jointes doth carve,
Then fades he fast, that sought full fresh to bee:
He fades and faintes before his fellowes faile,
Which lay full lowe, and never hoyst up saile.
Which climbes too high about the loftie tree,
But when the twist his tender jointes doth carve,
Then fades he fast, that sought full fresh to bee:
He fades and faintes before his fellowes faile,
Which lay full lowe, and never hoyst up saile.
Ay me, the dayes which I in dole consume,
Ah las, the nightes which witnesse well my woe,
O wrongful world which makst my fansie fume,
Fie fickle Fortune, fie thou arte my foe,
Out and alas, so frowarde is my chaunce,
No dayes nor nightes, nor worldes can me advaunce.
Ah las, the nightes which witnesse well my woe,
O wrongful world which makst my fansie fume,
Fie fickle Fortune, fie thou arte my foe,
Out and alas, so frowarde is my chaunce,
No dayes nor nightes, nor worldes can me advaunce.
368
In recklesse youth, the common plague of Love
Infected me (al day) with carelesse minde,
Entising dames my patience still did prove,
And blearde mine eyes, till I became so blinde,
That seing not what furie brought mee foorth,
I followed most (alwayes) that least was woorth.
Infected me (al day) with carelesse minde,
Entising dames my patience still did prove,
And blearde mine eyes, till I became so blinde,
That seing not what furie brought mee foorth,
I followed most (alwayes) that least was woorth.
In middle yeares, the reache of Reasons reine
No sooner gan to bridle in my will,
Nor naked neede no sooner gan constreine
My rash decay to breake my sleepes by skill,
But streight therewith hope set my heart on flame,
To winne againe both wealth and woorthy name.
No sooner gan to bridle in my will,
Nor naked neede no sooner gan constreine
My rash decay to breake my sleepes by skill,
But streight therewith hope set my heart on flame,
To winne againe both wealth and woorthy name.
And thence proceedes my most consuming griefe,
For whyles the hope of mine unyolden harte
In endlesse toyles did labor for reliefe,
Came crabbed Chance and marrde my merry marte:
Yea, not content with one fowle overthrowe,
So tied me fast for tempting any mo.
For whyles the hope of mine unyolden harte
In endlesse toyles did labor for reliefe,
Came crabbed Chance and marrde my merry marte:
Yea, not content with one fowle overthrowe,
So tied me fast for tempting any mo.
She tied me fast (alas) in golden chaines,
Wherein I dwell, not free, nor fully thrall,
Where guilefull love in double doubt remaines,
Nor honie sweet, nor bitter yet as gall:
For every day a patterne I beholde
Of scortching flame, which makes my heart full colde.
Wherein I dwell, not free, nor fully thrall,
Where guilefull love in double doubt remaines,
Nor honie sweet, nor bitter yet as gall:
For every day a patterne I beholde
Of scortching flame, which makes my heart full colde.
And every night, the rage of restlesse thought
Doth raise me up, my hope for to renewe,
My quiet bed which I for solace sought,
Doth yrke mine eares, when still the warlike crewe
With sounde of drummes, and trumpets braying shrill
Relieve their watch, yet I in thraldome still.
Doth raise me up, my hope for to renewe,
My quiet bed which I for solace sought,
Doth yrke mine eares, when still the warlike crewe
With sounde of drummes, and trumpets braying shrill
Relieve their watch, yet I in thraldome still.
The common joy, the cheere of companie,
Twixt mirth and moane doth plundge me evermore:
For pleasant talke, or Musicks melodie,
Yeeld no such salve unto my secret sore,
But that therewith this corsive coms me too,
Why live not I at large as others doo?
Twixt mirth and moane doth plundge me evermore:
For pleasant talke, or Musicks melodie,
Yeeld no such salve unto my secret sore,
But that therewith this corsive coms me too,
Why live not I at large as others doo?
369
Lo thus I live in spite of cruell death,
And die as fast in spite of lingring life,
Fedde still with hope which doth prolong my breath,
But choakte with feare, and strangled still with strife,
Starke staring blinde bicause I see too much,
Yet gasing still bicause I see none such.
And die as fast in spite of lingring life,
Fedde still with hope which doth prolong my breath,
But choakte with feare, and strangled still with strife,
Starke staring blinde bicause I see too much,
Yet gasing still bicause I see none such.
Amid these pangs (O subtil Cordial)
Those farrefet sighes which most mens mindes eschewe,
Recomforte me, and make the furie fall,
Which fedde the roote from whence my fits renewe:
They comforte me (ah wretched doubtfull clause)
They helpe the harme, and yet they kill the cause.
Those farrefet sighes which most mens mindes eschewe,
Recomforte me, and make the furie fall,
Which fedde the roote from whence my fits renewe:
They comforte me (ah wretched doubtfull clause)
They helpe the harme, and yet they kill the cause.
Where might I then my carefull corpse convay
From companie, which worketh all my woe?
How might I winke or hide mine eyes alway,
Which gaze on that wherof my griefe doth growe?
How might I stoppe mine eares, which hearken still,
To every joy, which can but wounde my will?
From companie, which worketh all my woe?
How might I winke or hide mine eyes alway,
Which gaze on that wherof my griefe doth growe?
How might I stoppe mine eares, which hearken still,
To every joy, which can but wounde my will?
How should I seeme my sighes for to suppresse,
Which helpe the heart that else would swelt in sunder?
Which hurt the helpe that makes my torment lesse?
Which helpe and hurte (oh wofull wearie wonder)
One seely hart[e] thus toste twixt helpe and harme,
How should I seeme, such sighes in tyme to charme?
Which helpe the heart that else would swelt in sunder?
Which hurt the helpe that makes my torment lesse?
Which helpe and hurte (oh wofull wearie wonder)
One seely hart[e] thus toste twixt helpe and harme,
How should I seeme, such sighes in tyme to charme?
How? how but thus? in sollitarie wise
To steppe aside, and make high way to moane:
To make two fountaines of my dazled eies,
To sigh my fill till breath a[n]d all be gone:
So sighed the knight of whome Bartello writes,
All cladde in Greene, yet banisht from delights.
To steppe aside, and make high way to moane:
To make two fountaines of my dazled eies,
To sigh my fill till breath a[n]d all be gone:
So sighed the knight of whome Bartello writes,
All cladde in Greene, yet banisht from delights.
And since the storye is both new and trew,
A dreary tale much like these lottes of myne
I will assaye my muze for to renewe,
By ryming out his frowarde fatall fine.
A dolefull speeche becōmes a dumpish man,
So semde by him, for thus his tale begane.
A dreary tale much like these lottes of myne
I will assaye my muze for to renewe,
By ryming out his frowarde fatall fine.
A dolefull speeche becōmes a dumpish man,
So semde by him, for thus his tale begane.
| The Complete Works of George Gascoigne | |