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The most famous and Tragicall Historie of Pelops and Hippodamia

Whereunto are adioyned sundrie pleasant deuises, Epigrams, Songes and Sonnettes. Written by Mathewe Groue

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The restlesse estate of a Louer,
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The restlesse estate of a Louer,

written to a frēd of his, whrein he craueth to haue some good councel to ease his greefe.

My frend, the care that I sustayne
and life I leade at all,
I send in paper here, as by
these lines perceiue you shall.
The sluggish bed and drowsie place
I always doe detest
Sith I therin with weary limmes
enioy no quyet rest.
Before that Phebus shewe his beams
in morning I arise
On field to fare then forth I passe,
as is my common guise.
Where of the lusty flowers greene,
and yealow fresh of hewe,
As by and ouer them I passe,
I take the perfect vewe.


Which colours two (though vading aye)
I like and euer shall,
For in the field while they remayne
they passen colours all.
Directly then vnto some hil,
or mountaine fast me by,
In beaten path I take my course,
and way as it doth lie.
Where long I scale with feeble legs
my selfe vp for to get.
By reason though of troubled heart
I puffe and sometime swet.
Yet stint I neuer till that I
on highest place may stand
And top therof, me round about,
for to behold the land
The sweling sea with surging waues
also such foules as flie
And euery thing that of the land,
or ayer comes me by.
The greene forrest which vnto me
doth seeme most fayre of all,
And euery fearefull beast thereof
to you which I name shal.
The mighty hart, his make the hind
the buck and eke the doe.
On side of hil there resteth, and
the swift amazed Roe.


The nimble long ear'd hare that swift
before the hound gan run,
The litle cracknut squirel erst
on tree, that pretie bun:
And furthermore I see by me,
the wilie subtile foxe.
The balstone or the grey doth chase
and beate from clime rocks.
Oh but at length I doe perceiue,
as wished with the rest,
A pallace pure of pleasure, and
the place that likes me best.
And as in ioy (by sight therof)
in dumpe there stil I stay
At length vnto my selfe these words,
with warbling tongue I say.
Within thy walles and chambers fayre
a perfect place of blisse,
My dearest frend, the wight that hath
my heart, enclosed is.
Where oft I wish my wretched corps
in couert for to be,
So that no wight my sodayne shape
or presence knew but she.
Transformed from my proper hew,
and changed in such wise,
As for our sureties both she could
her selfe then best deuise.


A pretie little hound on her
with faithful heart to fowne,
I stand content so that my minde,
were present to her knowen.
A chirping mouse in hole to creepe,
in caue or hollow wall:
When that in bed she thinks to rest,
my louing noyce were small,
A linnet in a wretched cage,
before her for to sing
With shrillish notes I would ne stay
nor stent of warbuling.
A Phillip Sparow on her fist
or elswhere to be fed,
At her owne hands twice euery day
with chosen crums of bread.
A little Robin that doeth hop
about with reddish brest:
Or els if Ioue would me conuert,
a blacke flea in her nest.
In faith with force ne could I finde
or thinke once in my heart,
The prety naked soule from out
her sleepe once for to start.
But that mine eyes at leysure might
her seemely corps behold:
Of God that rules the rounded ball,
none other thing I would.


Thus when my weary playnt
and wishes all haue sayn:
I hie me home, because the night,
approched to my paine.
Where I consume the day, vntil
I see the mantled night:
Which come on bed, for shew of rest.
I spend vntil the light,
And then my course to mountain hie
againe I doe renew
Of euery thing as yesterday,
to take the perfect vewe
Loe here my frend I send to you
the patterne of my payne,
I craue nothing but of your hands
an answere sage againe.
And as in pleasure you haue beene
to me a faithfull frend,
So likewise in distresse and greefe
to shew your selfe so kinde.
Some good aduice let me receiue
of that thy gratefull hand,
Wherby I may direct my path
as surest for to stand.
The while I wil attempt with lines
and letters for to moue,
The frozen heart of that good saint
me to requite with loue.


If tokens may ne boote, or that
none other thing preuaile,
Then wil I goe and yeelde my selfe
what so ere doth me assaile,
And present plead for grace, but now
for once let this suffice.
My Muse and I with slender quill,
to endite wil now deuise.