 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
424
[What state to man, so sweete and pleasaunt weare]
What
state to man, so sweete and pleasaunt weare,
As to be tyed, in linkes of worthy love?
What life so blist and happie might appeare,
As for to serve Cupid that God above?
If that our mindes were not sometimes infect,
With dread, with feare, with care, with cold suspect:
With deepe dispaire, with furious frenesie,
Handmaides to her, whome we call jelosie.
As to be tyed, in linkes of worthy love?
What life so blist and happie might appeare,
As for to serve Cupid that God above?
425
With dread, with feare, with care, with cold suspect:
With deepe dispaire, with furious frenesie,
Handmaides to her, whome we call jelosie.
For ev'ry other sop of sower chaunce,
Which lovers tast amid their sweete delight:
Encreaseth joye, and doth their love aduaunce,
In pleasures place, to have more perfect plight.
The thirstie mouth thinkes water hath good taste,
The hungrie jawes, are pleas'd, with eche repaste:
Who hath not prov'd what dearth by warres doth growe,
Cannot of peace the pleasaunt plenties knowe.
Which lovers tast amid their sweete delight:
Encreaseth joye, and doth their love aduaunce,
In pleasures place, to have more perfect plight.
The thirstie mouth thinkes water hath good taste,
The hungrie jawes, are pleas'd, with eche repaste:
Who hath not prov'd what dearth by warres doth growe,
Cannot of peace the pleasaunt plenties knowe.
And though with eye, we see not ev'ry joye,
Yet maie the minde, full well support the same,
[An] absent life long led in great annoye
(When presence comes) doth turne from griefe to game,
To serve without reward is thought great paine,
But if dispaire do not therewith remaine,
It may be borne for right rewardes at last,
Followe true service, though they come not fast.
Yet maie the minde, full well support the same,
[An] absent life long led in great annoye
(When presence comes) doth turne from griefe to game,
To serve without reward is thought great paine,
But if dispaire do not therewith remaine,
It may be borne for right rewardes at last,
Followe true service, though they come not fast.
Disdaines, repulses, finallie eche ill,
Eche smart, eche paine, of love eche bitter tast,
To thinke on them gan frame the lovers will,
To like eche joye, the more that comes at last:
But this infernall plague if once it tutch,
Or venome once the lovers mind with grutch,
All festes and joyes that afterwardes befall,
The lover comptes them light or nought at all.
Eche smart, eche paine, of love eche bitter tast,
To thinke on them gan frame the lovers will,
To like eche joye, the more that comes at last:
But this infernall plague if once it tutch,
Or venome once the lovers mind with grutch,
All festes and joyes that afterwardes befall,
The lover comptes them light or nought at all.
This is that sore, this is that poisoned wound,
The which to heale, nor salve, nor ointmentes serve,
Nor charme of wordes, nor Image can be founde,
Nor observaunce of starres can it preserve,
Nor all the art of Magicke can prevaile,
Which Zoroactes found for our availe,
Oh cruell plague, above all sorrowes smart,
With desperate death thou sleast the lovers heart.
The which to heale, nor salve, nor ointmentes serve,
Nor charme of wordes, nor Image can be founde,
Nor observaunce of starres can it preserve,
Nor all the art of Magicke can prevaile,
Which Zoroactes found for our availe,
Oh cruell plague, above all sorrowes smart,
With desperate death thou sleast the lovers heart.
426
And me even now, thy gall hath so enfect,
As all the joyes which ever lover found,
And all good haps, that ever Troylus sect,
Atchieved yet above the luckles ground:
Can never sweeten once my mouth with mell,
Nor bring my thoughtes, againe in rest to dwell.
Of thy mad moodes, and of naught else I thinke,
In such like seas, faire Bradamant did sincke
As all the joyes which ever lover found,
And all good haps, that ever Troylus sect,
Atchieved yet above the luckles ground:
Can never sweeten once my mouth with mell,
Nor bring my thoughtes, againe in rest to dwell.
Of thy mad moodes, and of naught else I thinke,
In such like seas, faire Bradamant did sincke
Ferdinando. Jeronimy.
| The Complete Works of George Gascoigne | |