The vvorkes of a young wyt trust vp with a Fardell of pretie fancies, profitable to young Poetes, preiudicial to no man, and pleasaunt to euery man to passe away idle tyme withall. Whereunto is ioyned an odde kynde of wooing, with a Banquet of Comfettes, to make an ende withall. Done by N. B. Gentleman |
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[Behold I craue oh noble dame no feigned painted tale] |
 | The vvorkes of a young wyt |  |
[Behold I craue oh noble dame no feigned painted tale]
Not many dayes after, this youth languishing dayly, for lacke of his Mistris loue, willing to let his Mistris vnderstand of the woe he abode, and daylye lyude in for her sake: One daye in Verse he wrote his mynde vnto her, And founde meanes to delyuer it vnto her. Which how shee receiude or requited, I must not reueale, let it suffice that I onelye came by the Verses, and that fryendlye I lende them you to reade, which ar these that followe.
but read in deede a true discourse of the most bitter bale,
That euer any man abode, since first the world began,
which wretched state, (alas) is mine, and I that woful man.
I can not showe in kinde the summe of all my smart,
no pen can paint, nor tongue can tell the tormentes of my hart,
No hart almost can thinke, nor mynd conceaue but mine,
how there should growe such passing pangs as those wherein I pine.
But my poore hart doth feele, & minde conceaues to wel,
although my tongue doth want the skill in order how to tell,
Yet thus much I can saye, no bale but I abide,
no pleasure that in all the world, but is to me denide,
And if aboue all griefes, a secret griefe there be,
that restes in one odde man alone, that sure doth rest in me:
And for to showe good proofe that it must needes be so,
my wretched state may witnes well, in me a world of woe:
The daies I passe in dumpes, in doleful dreames the nightes,
eche minute of an houre, in mone, quite voyde of al delightes,
My heauy hart is furst with sorrow so opprest,
as neuer restes, but beates, and throbbes within my woful brest.
I sigh, I sobbe, I waile, and weepe, and so augment my smart:
And mourning dayly thus, my brayne distempers so,
as makes me hang euen like a logge my hedde, wheras I goe.
Mine eyes with shedding teares growe hollowe in my hedde:
my flesh is falne, skin grown to bones, & like a man halfe dead,
I still consume with care, and thus quite worne with woe,
I linger furth a lothsome life, the Lord of heaune doth knowe.
What shall I say? my hart is so opprest with griefe,
as all the pleasures in this world can lende me no reliefe,
Saue onely one (alas) which one, I feare will see,
me die for sorrow for her sake, ere shee wil pitie me:
Alas what haue I sayd, and is it then a shee?
yea sure it is, now iudge your selfe what shee this shee may be:
But what hard hart had shee that sawe my sorrow such,
and could relieue me in this case, & her good will would grutch?
Beleeue me now I vowe, thou art that onely shee,
who wrought my woe, and in my woe can onely comfort me:
Yea thou deere dame art she, for whom such thought I take,
and for the want of thy sweete loue it is such mone I make.
Be not then hard of hart, but some sweete comfort lend,
vnto this heauy hart of mine, whose life is neere at end:
That I may iustly say in hart yet before I die,
I found a friend of noble mind, in mine extremitie.
And if it be my happe to liue, oh noble dame,
thē I may say, thou saudste my life, for sure thou dost the same.
Consider of my case, and when you see me next,
some signe of comfort shew to him, that is thus sore perplext.
Untill which time deere dame, and till last gaspe of breath:
farewell frō him who lookes frō thee, for cause of life or death.
In hast God send good speed, from me thy seruaunt true,
receiue these lamentable lines, and so sweete soule adue.
By him who rests, at thy reliefe,
to liue in ioy, or pine in griefe.
Now I am sure you thinke the man was in a marueilous taking when he wrote, and doubtles so he was, and so let him be, til God send him better hap by desart to get fauor of his Mystris, or presente death, too ridde him out of his perplexities: for I am sure, that he woulde rather wishe for, then long to remaine in the wretched state that now he euery way stands in. But since my wishes can neyther doe him good, nor he him selfe can finde no meanes too get ease of griefe, I refer him, to the helpe of God, who can helpe euery man that trusteth in him, and praieth for his helpe: and so, letting him reste in his perplexity, till God only cende him deliueraunce, I leaue to write now any further of him or his passions.
| The vvorkes of a young wyt | |