Newe Sonets and pretie Pamphlets. Written by Thomas Howell. Newly augmented, corrected and amended |
 |
He lamenteth the vngratefull person for inconstancie.
|
 | Newe Sonets |  |
He lamenteth the vngratefull person for inconstancie.
Alas
I vnhappie and most wofull wight,
Whom Fortune so deeply hath now in despight,
That tonge cannot tell ne Pen haue powre to wright,
My pittifull playnt and heauie pining plight.
Whom Fortune so deeply hath now in despight,
That tonge cannot tell ne Pen haue powre to wright,
My pittifull playnt and heauie pining plight.
How shall I to ease me, vnborden my brest,
Of these double dolours that breedes mine vnrest,
When speeche wanteth powre, when Pen is vnprest,
And witte wanteth conning thervnto adrest.
Of these double dolours that breedes mine vnrest,
15
And witte wanteth conning thervnto adrest.
This great restlesse rage in my minde doth renew,
And where I fayne helpe woulde finde harme doth ensew:
But yet was I neuer founde false or vntrew,
Which causeth me much more my dolors to rew.
And where I fayne helpe woulde finde harme doth ensew:
But yet was I neuer founde false or vntrew,
Which causeth me much more my dolors to rew.
She that I did honour, aboue all the rest,
To whom I reserued, the harte in my brest,
Hath me quite forsaken and broke hir behest,
And another taken, to loue and like best.
To whom I reserued, the harte in my brest,
Hath me quite forsaken and broke hir behest,
And another taken, to loue and like best.
And seemeth now sleightly to beare me in hande,
That I was cause only of breatche of hir bande,
But truth if me tried full searched and scande,
Then trespas in me should she non vnderstande.
That I was cause only of breatche of hir bande,
But truth if me tried full searched and scande,
Then trespas in me should she non vnderstande.
Wherfore to the Spider I may her compare,
That cruelly killeth whats caught in hir snare,
For she by like tyranie nothing doth spare,
Most spitefully to spoyle thus my carcas with care.
That cruelly killeth whats caught in hir snare,
For she by like tyranie nothing doth spare,
Most spitefully to spoyle thus my carcas with care.
Finis.
| Newe Sonets | |