The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton For the First Time Collected and Edited: With Memorial-Introduction, Notes and Illustrations, Glossarial Index, Facsimilies, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart. In Two Volumes |
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
A Solemne long enduring Passion.
Past. 4.
Wearie thoughts doe waite vpon meGriefe hath to much ouer gone me
Time doth howerly ouer-toyle me,
While deepe sorrowes seeke to spoile me
Wit and sences all amazéd,
In their Graces ouer gazéd:
In exceeding torments tell me,
Neuer such a death befell mee.
Loue, oh life of more tormenting,
Then the world hath inuenting.
Neuer ceizd vpon a creature,
In a truer killing nature.
Not with Venus idle itching,
Nor with vaine affectes bewitching:
But with wit and reason's seeing,
Nature's beauties sweetest being:
Time and truth on earth declaring,
Excellence hath no comparing.
Not a Haire but hath in holding,
Honors hart, in loues beholding:
Not an eye, but in her glaunces,
Graceth reason in Loues traunces,
Not a looke but hath in louing,
Faith too fast for euery moouing.
Not a worde, but in commaunding,
Daunteth folly from demaunding.
Not a lippe, but makes the Cherrie,
Onely held a prettie Berrie:
Not a breath that softly blowes,
But perfumeth where it goes:
Not a truth but doth display,
All the Chesse in battaile ray:
Where the princely eye may see:
How they all in order bee.
King and Queene, Knight, Bishop, Rooke:
And the Pawne his place hath tooke.
Blesséd cheeke, the sweetest chaine,
Of affections sweetest vaine.
What can sweetest iudgements say,
But thou cariest sweete away?
Prettie cheeke, in whose sweet pit,
Loue would liue and die to sit.
Let mee thinke no more on thee,
Thou hast too much wounded me:
And that skarre vpon thy throate,
No such starre on Stellas coate.
Let me chide, yet with that stay,
That did weare the skinne away:
But alas shall I goe lower,
In sweet similies to showe her?
When to touch her praises tittle,
Nature's sweetnes is to little:
Where each Sinow, Limme and ioynt,
Perfect shape in euery point,
From corruptions eye concealed,
But to vertue loue reuealed,
Binde my thoughts to silence speaking,
While my hart must lye a breaking.
Petrarche, in his thoughts diuine,
Tasso in his highest line.
Ariosto's best inuention.
Dante's best obscur'd intention.
Ouid in his sweetest vaine:
Pastor Fidos purest straine.
With the finest Poet's wit,
That of wonders euer writ:
Were they all but now aliue,
And would for the Garland striue,
In the gratious praise of loue,
Heere they might their passions prooue.
On such excellences grownded;
That their wittes would be confounded.
And in enuie at my grace,
To beholde this blesséd face:
Finding all their wittes too weake,
Of her wonder worth to speake,
In a fretting humor'd vaine,
Runne into their graues againe.
But aye me! what inward wound,
Laies my comforts all a ground?
Absence, oh that world of woe,
That too neere the heart doth goe:
When the eye cannot beholde,
That the spirit hath in holde.
Loue must liue and looke a farre,
In a dreame vpon a starre:
But indeed beholde no light:
In darke absence onely night:
But what haue I said? aye me!
8
Sight of absence such a presence
Of Mineruas excellence.
In loue's liuing memorie,
That the light can neuer die.
No, first die all Poetts' loue,
Ere faith such a fiction prooue.
In obliuious light to place,
Such a blesséd starre of grace:
As in bright Aglaiae's eyes,
Shewes an earthly paradise.
If my Suite be not too great,
Thus much let thy swaine entreate:
Where no colde suspect can harme thee,
Looke into my hearte and warme thee,
Turne my Musicke to thy minde,
Let it know no other kinde.
Breake my pipe if that it play,
Other then the rounddelay.
Cut my throate if that I sing,
But vnto thy fauour's string.
Neuer grace my louely flocke,
But vpon the blessed rocke,
Where thy Grace may giue them feeding,
And thy blessing all their breeding.
I haue neither Plummes nor Cherries,
Nuttes, nor Aples, nor Straw-berries;
Pinnes nor Laces, Pointes nor gloues,
Nor a payre of painted Doues:
Shuttle-Cocke nor trundle ball,
To present thy loue with all:
But a heart as true and kinde,
As an honest faithfull minde
Can deuice for to inuent,
To thy patience I present:
At thy fairest feete it lies:
Blesse it with thy blesséd eyes:
Take it vp into thy handes,
At whose onely grace it standes,
To be comforted for euer,
Or to looke for comfort neuer:
Oh it is a strange affecte,
That my fancie doth effect.
I am caught and can not start,
Wit and reason, eye and heart:
All are witnesses to mee,
Loue hath sworne me slaue to thee,
Let me then be but thy slaue,
And no further fauour craue:
Send mee foorth to tende thy flocke,
On the highest Mountaine rocke.
Or commaund me but to goe,
To the valley grownd belowe:
All shall be a like to me,
Where it please thee I shall bee.
Let my face be what thou wilt:
Saue my life, or see it spilt.
Keepe fasting on thy Mountaine:
Charge me not come neere thy Fountaine.
In the stormes and bitter blastes,
Where the skie all ouercasts.
In the coldest frost and snowe,
That the earth did euer knowe:
Let me sit and bite my thumbes,
Where I see no comfort comes.
All the sorrowes I can prooue,
Cannot put me from my loue.
Tell me that thou art content,
To beholde me passion rente,
That thou know'st I deerely loue thee,
Yet withall it cannot mooue thee.
That thy pride doth growe so great,
Nothing can thy grace intreate,
That thou wilt so cruell bee,
As to kill my loue and mee:
That thou wilt no foode reserue,
But my flockes and I shall sterue.
Be thy rage yet nere so great,
When my little Lambes doe bleate,
To beholde their Shepheard die:
Then will truth her passion trie.
How a Hart it selfe hath spent,
With concealing of content.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |