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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[What griping greefes, what pinching pangues of payne?] |
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
[What griping greefes, what pinching pangues of payne?]
The same man beeing in very great dumpes the same time, beeing likewise intreated to write some dolefull Dittie of his owne inuention wrote as followeth.
What griping greefes, what pinching pangues of payne?
What deadly dinte, of deepe and darke annoye?
What plague? what wo, dooth in this world remaine?
What Hellish happe? what wante of worldly ioye?
But that (oh Caytife) I do dayly bide,
Yea, and that more then all the world beside.
What deadly dinte, of deepe and darke annoye?
What plague? what wo, dooth in this world remaine?
What Hellish happe? what wante of worldly ioye?
But that (oh Caytife) I do dayly bide,
Yea, and that more then all the world beside.
If euer man had cause to wish for death,
To cut atwo this lucklesse lyne of life:
Why striue not I, with speede to stoppe my breath?
Since cruell care, not like a caruing knife,
But like a Sawe, still hackling to and froe,
Thus gnawes my heart, with gripes of weary woe.
To cut atwo this lucklesse lyne of life:
Why striue not I, with speede to stoppe my breath?
Since cruell care, not like a caruing knife,
But like a Sawe, still hackling to and froe,
Thus gnawes my heart, with gripes of weary woe.
What, doo you thinke I iest, or that I faine?
Or, Louer-like, my life I doo lament?
Or that my fyttes are fancies of the braine,
Which wauer still, and neuer stande content?
Or that my sighes are nought but signes of sloath?
Oh, thinke not so, beleeue me, on my troath.
Or, Louer-like, my life I doo lament?
Or that my fyttes are fancies of the braine,
Which wauer still, and neuer stande content?
Or that my sighes are nought but signes of sloath?
Oh, thinke not so, beleeue me, on my troath.
This I protest before my God on hie,
If that I could my doloures well declare:
I thinke I should such priuie pangues descrie
Of sorrowes smarte, as surely seldome are
Seene nowadayes: I thinke, especially:
Yea, seene or felte, of such a Youth as I.
If that I could my doloures well declare:
I thinke I should such priuie pangues descrie
Of sorrowes smarte, as surely seldome are
Seene nowadayes: I thinke, especially:
Yea, seene or felte, of such a Youth as I.
But some perhaps will aske, what is my woe?
What is the thing that makes me so to mourne?
And why I walke so solemne too and froe?
I aunswer thus: such fyry flames dooth burne
Bothe day and night, within my boyling brest,
That, God he knowes, I take but little rest.
What is the thing that makes me so to mourne?
And why I walke so solemne too and froe?
I aunswer thus: such fyry flames dooth burne
Bothe day and night, within my boyling brest,
That, God he knowes, I take but little rest.
But shall I tell how fyrst this flame arose?
And how these Coles were kindled at the furst?
I may not so my dolloures deepe disclose:
For credit me, I would faine, if I durst:
But since, alas, I may not as I would,
Let this suffice, I would faine, if I could.
And how these Coles were kindled at the furst?
I may not so my dolloures deepe disclose:
For credit me, I would faine, if I durst:
But since, alas, I may not as I would,
Let this suffice, I would faine, if I could.
What if I could? nay, durst: what did I say?
For if I durst, I know full well I could:
What could I doe? no whit more then I may:
I know that too: but yet, if that I would,
I could doe much more then I meane to doe,
As thus advisde: but whether doo I goe?
For if I durst, I know full well I could:
What could I doe? no whit more then I may:
I know that too: but yet, if that I would,
I could doe much more then I meane to doe,
As thus advisde: but whether doo I goe?
What neede so many words, so much a doe?
To blaze the broyles that I doe dayly byde:
Or else to tell of tormentes too and fro,
Wherewith I am beset on euery syde:
These few wordes mought haue serued the tourne, I trowe:
Ten thousand plagues, but pleasures none I knowe.
To blaze the broyles that I doe dayly byde:
Or else to tell of tormentes too and fro,
Wherewith I am beset on euery syde:
These few wordes mought haue serued the tourne, I trowe:
Ten thousand plagues, but pleasures none I knowe.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |