University of Virginia Library

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEMS

29 THE LADY GERALDINE

Ffrom Tuscan cam my ladies worthi race;
Faire Fflorence was sometime her auncient seate;
The westerne ile, whose pleasaunt showre doth face
Wylde Chambares cliffes, did geve her lyvely heate;
Ffostred she was with mylke of Irishe brest;
Her syer an erle, hir dame of princes bloud;
From tender yeres in Britaine she doth rest,
With a kinges child, where she tastes gostly foode;
Honsdon did furst present her to myn eyen;
Bryght ys her hew, and Geraldine shee highte;
Hampton me tawght to wishe her furst for myne;
And Windesor, alas! doth chace me from her sight.
Bewty of kind, her vertues from above,
Happy ys he that may obtaine her love.

30 WINDSOR MEMORIES

When Windesor walles sustained my wearied arme,
My hand, my chyn, to ease my restles hedd,
Ech pleasaunt plot revested green with warm,
The blossomed bowes, with lustie veare yspred,
The flowred meades, the weddyd birdes so late,
Myne eyes discouered. Than did to mynd resort
The ioily woes, the hateles shorte debate,
The rakhell life, that longes to loves disporte.
Wherwith, alas! myne hevy charge of care,
Heapt in my brest, brake forth against my will;
And smoky sighes, that over cast the ayer;
My vapored eyes such drery teares distill,
The tender spring to quicken wher thei fall;
And I have bent to throwe me downe with all.

31 THE POETS LAMENT FOR HIS LOST BOYHOOD

32 A SATIRE ON LONDON, THE MODERN BABYLON

London, hast thow accused me
Of breche of lawes, the roote of stryfe?
Within whose brest did boyle to see,
So fervent hotte, thy dissolute lief,
That even the hate of synnes, that groo
Within thy wicked walles so rife,
Ffor to breake forthe did convert soo
That terrour colde it not represse.
The which, by wordes, syns prechers knoo
What hope is left for to redresse,
By vnknowne meanes, it liked me
My hydden burden to expresse,
Wherby yt might appere to the
That secret synn hath secret spight;
Ffrom iustice rodd no fault is free;
But that all such as wourke vnright
In most quyet, are next ill rest.
In secret sylence of the night
This made me, with a reckles brest,
To wake thy sluggardes with my bowe;
A fygure of the Lordes behest,
Whose scourge for synn the Screptures shew.
That, as the fearfull thonder clapp
By soddayne flame at hand we knowe,
Of peoble stones the sowndles rapp,
The dredfull plage might mak the see
Of Goddes wrath, that doth the enwrapp;
That pryde might know, from conscyence free,
How loftye workes may her defend;
And envye fynd, as he hath sought,
How other seke hym to offend;
And wrath tast of eche crewell thought
The iust shapp hyer in the end;
And ydell slouthe, that never wrought,
To heven hys spirite lift may begyn;
& gredye lucre lyve in drede
To see what haate ill gott goodes wynn;
The lechers, ye that lustes do feed,
Perceve what secrecye is in synne;
And gluttons hartes for sorrow blede,
Awaked, when their faulte they fynd.
In lothsome vyce, eche dronken wight
To styrr to Godd, this was my mynd.
Thy wyndowes had don me no spight;
But prowd people that drede no fall,
Clothed with falshed' and vnright
Bred in the closures of thy wall,
But wrested to wrathe in fervent zeale,
Thow hast to strief, my secret call.
Endured hartes no warning feale.
On shamles hore! is dred then gone
By suche thy foes, as ment thy weale?
Oh membre of false Babylon!
The shopp of craft! the denne of ire!
Thy dredfull dome drawes fast uppon;
Thy martyres blood, by swoord & fyre,
In Heaven & earth for iustice call.
The Lord shall here their iust desyre;
The flame of wrath shall on the fall;
With famyne and pest lamentablie
Stricken shalbe thy lecheres all;
Thy prowd towers and turretes hye,
Enmyes to God, beat stone from stone;
Thyne idolles burnt, that wrought iniquitie.
When none thy ruyne shall bemone,
But render vnto the right wise Lord,
That so hath iudged Babylon,
Imortall praise with one accord.

33 LADY SURREYS LAMENT FOR HER ABSENT LORD

Good ladies, you that have your pleasure in exyle,
Stepp in your foote, come, take a place, and mourne with me awhyle;
And suche as by their lords do sett but lytle pryce,
Lett them sitt still, it skills them not what chaunce come on the dyce.
But you whome love hath bound, by order of desyre
To love your lordes, whose good desertes none other wold requyre,
Come you yet once agayne, and sett your foote by myne,
Whose wofull plight, and sorowes great, no tongue may well defyne.
My lord and love, alas! in whome consystes my wealth,
Hath fortune sent to passe the seas, in haserd of his health.
That I was wontt for to embrace, contentid myndes,
Ys now amydd the foming floodds, at pleasure of the wyndes.
Theare God hym well preserve, and safelye me hym send;
Without whiche hope, my lyf, alas! weare shortlye at an ende.
Whose absence yet, although my hope doth tell me plaine
With short returne he comes anon, yet ceasith not my payne.
The fearefull dreames I have, oft tymes they greeve me so
That then I wake, and stand in dowbtt yf they be trew or no.
Somtyme the roring seas, me seemes, they grow so hye,
That my sweete lorde in daunger greate, alas! doth often lye.
Another tyme, the same doth tell me he is comme,
And playng, wheare I shall hym fynd, with T., his lytle sonne.
So forthe I goe apace, to see that lyfsome sight,
And with a kysse, me thinckes I say, “Now well come home, my knight;
Welcome, my sweete, alas! the staye of my welfare;
Thye presence bringeth forthe a truce betwixt me and my care.”
Then lyvelye doth he looke, and saluith me agayne,
And saith, “My deare, how is it now that you have all this payne?”
Wheare with the heavie cares, that heapt are in my brest,
Breake forth, and me dischardgeth cleane of all my great unrest.
Butt when I me awayke and fynde it but a dreame,
The angwyshe of my former woe beginneth more extreme,
And me tourmentith so that vnneth may I fynde
Some hydden wheare, to steale the gryfe of my unquyet mynd.
Thus, euerye waye, you see with absence how I burne,
And for my wound no cure there is but hope of some retourne,
Save when I feele, the sower, how sweete is felt the more,
It doth abate some of my paynes that I abode before;
And then unto my self I saye, “When that we two shall meete,
But lyttle tyme shall seeme this payne, that joye shall be so sweete.”
Ye wyndes, I you convart, in chieffest of your rage,
That you my lord me safelye send, my sorowes to asswage;
And that I may not long abyde in suche excesse,
Do your good will to cure a wight that lyveth in distresse.

34 AN IRATE HOST

Eache beeste can chuse his feere according to his minde,
And eke to shew a frindlie cheare, lyke to their beastly kynd.
A lyon saw I theare, as whyte as any snow,
Whiche seemyd well to leade the race, his porte the same did shew.
Uppon this gentyll beast to gaze it lyked me,
For still me thought, it seemyd me, of noble blood to be.
And as he praunced before, still seeking for a make,
As whoe wolde say, “There is none heare, I trow, will me forsake,”
I might perceave a woolf, as whyte as whale his bone,
A fayrer beast, a fressher hew, beheld I never none,
Save that her lookes wear fearce and froward eke her grace.
Toward the whiche, this gentle beast gan hym advaunce apace,
And, with a beck full low, he bowed at her feete
In humble wyse, as who wold say, “I am to farr unmeete”;
But suche a scornfull cheere, wheare with she hym rewarded,
Was never seene, I trow, the lyke, to suche as well deservid.
Wheare with she startt asyde well neare a foote or twayne,
And unto hym thus gan she saye, with spight and great disdayne:
“Lyon,” she said, “yf thow hadest knowen my mynde beforne,
Thow hadst not spentt thie travaile thus, and all thie payne forlorne.
Do waye! I lett the weete, thow shalt not play with me;
But raunge aboute: thow maiste seeke oute some meeter feere for the.”
Forthwith he beatt his taile, his eyes begounne to flame;
I might perceave his noble hartt moche moved by the same.
Yet saw I him refrayne, and eke his rage asswage,
And unto her thus gan he say, whan he was past his rage:
“Crewell, you do me wronge to sett me thus so light;
Without desert, for my good will to shew me such dispight.
How can you thus entreat a lyon of the race,
That with his pawes a crowned kinge devoured in the place?
Whose nature is, to prea uppon no symple foode
As longe as he may suck the flesshe, and drincke of noble bloode.
Yf you be faire and fresshe, am I not of your hew?
And, for my vaunte, I dare well say my blood is not untrew;
Ffor you your self dothe know, it is not long agoe,
Sins that, for love, one of the race did end his life in woe
In towre both strong and highe, for his assured truthe.
Wheare as in teares he spent his breath, alas! the more the ruthe;
This gentle beast lykewise, who nothinge could remove,
But willinglye to seeke his death for losse of his true love.
Other ther be whose lyfe, to lynger still in payne,
Against their will preservid is, that wold have dyed right fayne.
But well I may perceave that nought it movid you,
My good entent, my gentle hart, nor yet my kynd so true;
But that your will is suche to lure me to the trade,
As others some full many yeares to trace by crafte you made.
And thus beholde my kynd, how that we differ farr:
I seke my foes, and you your frends do threaten still with warr;
I fawne wheare I am fedd, you flee that seekes to you;
I can devoure no yelding pray, you kill wheare you subdue;
My kynd, is to desyre the honour of the field,
And you, with blood to slake your thurst of suche as to you yelde.
Wherefore I wolde you wist, that for your coy lookes
I am no man that will be traynd, nor tanglyd bye such hookes;
And thoughe some list to bow, wheare blame full well they might,
And to suche beastes a currant fawne, that shuld have travaile bright,
I will observe the law that nature gave to me,
To conqueare such as will resist, and let the rest go free.
And as a ffaulcon free, that soreth in the ayre,
Whiche never fedd on hand or lure, that for no stale doth care,
While that I live and breathe, suche shall my custome be
In wildnesse of the woods to seeke my prea, wheare pleasith me;
Where many one shall rew that never mad offence:
Thus your refuse agaynst my powre shall bode them no defence.
In the revendge wherof, I vowe and sweare therto,
A thowsand spoyles I shall commytt I never thought to do;
And yf to light on you my happ so good shall be,
I shall be glad to feede on that that wold have fed on me.
And thus, farewell! unkynd, to whome I bent to low,
I would you wist the shipp is safe that bare his saile so low!
Syns that a lyons hart is for a woolfe no pray,
With blooddye mowth of symple sheepe go slake your wrath, I say,
With more dispight and ire than I can now expresse,
Whiche to my payne though I refrayne the cause you may well gesse:
As for becawse my self was awthour of this game,
It bootes me not that, by my wrath, I should disturbb the same.

35 PROLOG TO PSALM 88

Wher recheles youthe in a vnquiet brest,
Set on by wrath, revenge, and crueltye,
After long warr pacyens had opprest,
And iustice wrought by pryncelye equitie;
My Deny, then myne errour, depe imprest,
Began to worke dispaire of libertye,
Had not David, the perfyt warriour, tought
That of my fault thus pardon shold be sought.

36 PROLOG TO PSALM 73

The soudden stormes that heaue me to and froo
Had welneare pierced faith, my guyding saile,
For I, that on the noble voyage goo
To succhor treuthe and falshed to assaile,
Constrayned am to beare my sayles ful loo
And neuer could attayne some pleasaunt gaile,
For vnto such the prosperous winds doo bloo
As ronne from porte to porte to seke availe.
This bred dispayre, wherof such doubts did groo
That I gan faint and all my courage faile.
But now, my Blage, myne errour well I see;
Such goodlye light King David giueth me.

37 REFLECTIONS FROM THE TOWER

The stormes are past, these cloudes are ouerblowne,
And humble chere great rygour hath represt.
For the defaute is set a paine foreknowne,
And pacience graft in a determed brest.
And in the hart where heapes of griefes were grown,
The swete reuenge hath planted mirth and rest;
No company so pleasant as myne owne.
Thraldom at large hath made this prison fre;
Danger well past, remembred, workes delight.
Of lingring doutes such hope is sprong, perdie!
That nought I finde displeasaunt in my sight
But when my glasse presented vnto me
The curelesse wound that bledeth day and night.
To think, alas! such hap should graunted be
Vnto a wretch that hath no hart to fight,
To spill that blood that hath so oft bene shed
For Britannes sake, alas! and now is ded.