The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney In Three Volumes |
 | I, II. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| IV. |
 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
265
[Synce wayling ys a budd of Causefull Sorrowe]
Synce wayling ys a budd of Causefull Sorrowe,
Synce sorrowe ys the follower of yll Fortune,
Synce no yll Fortune equalles publique Damage,
Nowe Princess Losse hathe made oure Damage publique,
Sorrowe pay wee unto the Rightes of Nature,
And Inward greeffe seale up with outeward waylinge.
Synce sorrowe ys the follower of yll Fortune,
Synce no yll Fortune equalles publique Damage,
Nowe Princess Losse hathe made oure Damage publique,
Sorrowe pay wee unto the Rightes of Nature,
And Inward greeffe seale up with outeward waylinge.
Why shoulde wee spare oure voyce from endles waylinge?
Who Justly make oure hartes the seates of Sorowe,
In suche a Case, where yt apeares that Nature,
Dothe add her force unto the stinge of Fortune,
Chosing alas, this oure Theater publique,
Where they woulde Leave Tropheys of cruell Damage.
Who Justly make oure hartes the seates of Sorowe,
In suche a Case, where yt apeares that Nature,
Dothe add her force unto the stinge of Fortune,
Chosing alas, this oure Theater publique,
Where they woulde Leave Tropheys of cruell Damage.
Then since suche powers conspire unto oure Damage,
Whiche may bee knowne, but never helpt wth wayling,
Yet let us leave a Monument in publique,
Of willing teares, torne here, and Cryes of Sorrowe.
For lost, lost, ys by Blowe of Crewell Fortune,
Arcadias gemme the Noblest Chylde of Nature.
Whiche may bee knowne, but never helpt wth wayling,
Yet let us leave a Monument in publique,
Of willing teares, torne here, and Cryes of Sorrowe.
For lost, lost, ys by Blowe of Crewell Fortune,
Arcadias gemme the Noblest Chylde of Nature.
O Nature Doting olde, O blynded Nature?
Howe haste thow torne thy self, soughte thyne owne Damage?
In graunting suche a Scope to filthy Fortune.
By thy Impes loss, to fill the worlde with wayling?
Cast thy Stepp mother eyes uppon oure Sorowe,
Publique oure Loss, to see thy shame ys publick.
Howe haste thow torne thy self, soughte thyne owne Damage?
In graunting suche a Scope to filthy Fortune.
By thy Impes loss, to fill the worlde with wayling?
Cast thy Stepp mother eyes uppon oure Sorowe,
Publique oure Loss, to see thy shame ys publick.
266
O that wee had, (to make oure woes more publique)
Seays in oure eyes, and brazen Toungues by Nature,
A yelling voyce, and Hartes compost of Sorowe,
Breathe made of flames with knowing noughte but Damage.
Oure Sportes murdering oure selves, oure Musickes wayling
Oure studyes fixte uppon the falles of Fortune.
Seays in oure eyes, and brazen Toungues by Nature,
A yelling voyce, and Hartes compost of Sorowe,
Breathe made of flames with knowing noughte but Damage.
Oure Sportes murdering oure selves, oure Musickes wayling
Oure studyes fixte uppon the falles of Fortune.
No, no, oure myscheef growes in this vyle Fortune,
That private panges, can not breathe oute in publique,
The furyous Inward greeffes with hellish wayling.
But forced are to burden feeble Nature
With secrett sence of oure eternall Damage,
And sorowe feede feeding oure Sowles with sorowe.
Synce Sorowe then concludeth all oure Fortune,
With all oure deathes, shewe wee this Damage publique
His Nature feares to dye who lives still Wayling.
That private panges, can not breathe oute in publique,
The furyous Inward greeffes with hellish wayling.
But forced are to burden feeble Nature
With secrett sence of oure eternall Damage,
And sorowe feede feeding oure Sowles with sorowe.
Synce Sorowe then concludeth all oure Fortune,
With all oure deathes, shewe wee this Damage publique
His Nature feares to dye who lives still Wayling.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |