The pityfull Historie of two Louing Italians, Gaulfrido and Barnardo le vayne which ariued in the countrey of Grece, in the time of the noble Emperoure Vaspasian. And Translated out of Italian into Englishe meeter by John Drout |
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Seignor Bernardo to his mystresse Charina. |
 | The pityfull Historie of two Louing Italians, Gaulfrido and Barnardo le vayne |  |
Seignor Bernardo to his mystresse Charina.
My Lady deare, in vvhome
my lyfe and death is set,
Refuse me not, (I thee desire)
my greefe do not forget:
But reade and iudge of this,
as you shall thinke it best,
See hovve the fyery flame of loue
abridgth my quiet rest,
I lyue, and yet doe dayly dye,
I vvyther as the floure,
I follovv death: yea death hym selfe,
denies to shevve his povvre.
Fayne vvoulde I speake to thee (my loue)
to shevve my pyning vvo,
My silly senses disagree,
eche one I shoulde do so,
That they myght take theyr rest,
as they haue done before,
For that my sorrovves still begins,
and vexe mee more and more.
I bathe my breast vvith dolefull teares,
I neuer ceasse to mone,
I sigh as dothe a vvounded deare,
into a place alone,
VVhere as I do on fansies feede,
thereby to please my mynde,
Still fayning that I see thy face,
some ease at length to fynde.
Or else that I should so become
as one forlorne (alas)
My handes vvould not forbeare a vvhit
to lette my soule out passe.
Turne backe novve (good mysteresse myne)
regarde my sute I say:
Let not a louer yong so soone
bee brought vnto decay:
Fleshe me therefore novv (I do say)
good lady in this game,
Denie me not at fyrst, I craue,
vvhiche neuer knevve the same.
All this is for thy onely loue,
that my poore harte dothe taste:
Thou only arte the cause, god knovves,
my piteous partes doo vvaste,
Let novve deare dame, some mercy come
consider of my cause,
That am but lately brought in holde
to tast of louers lavves:
That all the vvorlde may say
thou damsell haste the knyfe,
VVho myght haue slayne me vvofull vvretch
and yet didst saue my lyfe:
Hereby thou vvinst the price,
then print thys in thy mynde,
Beholde hovve pitie pleades my cause,
lette hir some fauoure fynde.
In hope hereof my deere adevv,
the treasure of my trust,
The onely comfort of my care
tyll I consume to dust.
my lyfe and death is set,
Refuse me not, (I thee desire)
my greefe do not forget:
But reade and iudge of this,
as you shall thinke it best,
See hovve the fyery flame of loue
abridgth my quiet rest,
I lyue, and yet doe dayly dye,
I vvyther as the floure,
I follovv death: yea death hym selfe,
denies to shevve his povvre.
Fayne vvoulde I speake to thee (my loue)
to shevve my pyning vvo,
My silly senses disagree,
eche one I shoulde do so,
That they myght take theyr rest,
as they haue done before,
and vexe mee more and more.
I bathe my breast vvith dolefull teares,
I neuer ceasse to mone,
I sigh as dothe a vvounded deare,
into a place alone,
VVhere as I do on fansies feede,
thereby to please my mynde,
Still fayning that I see thy face,
some ease at length to fynde.
Or else that I should so become
as one forlorne (alas)
My handes vvould not forbeare a vvhit
to lette my soule out passe.
Turne backe novve (good mysteresse myne)
regarde my sute I say:
Let not a louer yong so soone
bee brought vnto decay:
Fleshe me therefore novv (I do say)
good lady in this game,
Denie me not at fyrst, I craue,
vvhiche neuer knevve the same.
All this is for thy onely loue,
that my poore harte dothe taste:
Thou only arte the cause, god knovves,
my piteous partes doo vvaste,
Let novve deare dame, some mercy come
consider of my cause,
to tast of louers lavves:
That all the vvorlde may say
thou damsell haste the knyfe,
VVho myght haue slayne me vvofull vvretch
and yet didst saue my lyfe:
Hereby thou vvinst the price,
then print thys in thy mynde,
Beholde hovve pitie pleades my cause,
lette hir some fauoure fynde.
In hope hereof my deere adevv,
the treasure of my trust,
The onely comfort of my care
tyll I consume to dust.
Your loyall and afflicted seruant Seignor Bernardo.
Reade not in spight, but take delight
in this, vvhiche once vvas prose,
VVhose vvatered plants scarce sicate vvere
till he this same did close.
But as he hath vvith good vvill vvritte,
vvhose hearte thou haste in holde,
So nothing lette to doe the lyke,
vvherof thou myght be bolde,
To count him as thyne owne,
Whose heart with thine shal rest alone.
in this, vvhiche once vvas prose,
VVhose vvatered plants scarce sicate vvere
till he this same did close.
But as he hath vvith good vvill vvritte,
vvhose hearte thou haste in holde,
So nothing lette to doe the lyke,
vvherof thou myght be bolde,
To count him as thyne owne,
Whose heart with thine shal rest alone.
| The pityfull Historie of two Louing Italians, Gaulfrido and Barnardo le vayne | |