The Forrest of Fancy Wherein is conteined very prety Apothegmes, and pleasaunt histories, both in meeter and prose, Songes, Sonets, Epigrams and Epistles, of diuerse matter and in diuerse manner. With sundry other deuices, no lesse pithye then pleasaunt and profytable [by H. C.] |
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The abiect Louer complaineth of the crueltye and disdainefull lookes of his Lady.
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 | The Forrest of Fancy |  |
The abiect Louer complaineth of the crueltye and disdainefull lookes of his Lady.
The moste incessaunt painefull panges,that I haue long sustainde:
By sundry meanes my feeble hande,
to write hath now constrainde.
Thereby to let thee vnderstand,
oh stony harted Dame,
The thing that this my dolefull hart,
(to thy eternall shame)
Cannot conceale, and seeing that
thou rather seekst to be,
My mortall foe, then faithfull friend,
I doe the like by thee,
If (as I am) thou were a man,
then weapons would I vse,
For to reuenge my wrong on thee,
that doest me so abuse,
But sith the tongue the weapon is,
wherewith fond women fight,
My tongue and pen shall now suffice,
to worke the lyke despight.
or sailes against the winde,
Or soweth seede in barren soyle,
but little gaine shall fynde,
So he that sets his loue,
where pryde hath taken place,
shall sooner catch his bitter bane,
then winne one sparke of grace,
As I vnto my paine,
haue proude to late alas
By seruing thee, oh scornefull dame,
that nought therefore doest passe.
For when by letters I,
my meaning doe declare,
Thy aunswere seemes as bitter gall,
for to increase my care,
When as I smyle, thou frownest.
and eake when I am sad,
Then greatly seemst thou to reioyce,
as one whose hart is glad,
If I doe thee salute
in friendly wise, I see
Thou turnest then thy head asyde,
and windste away from me,
The Tyger fierce in tyme,
is made both meeke and tame.
The stone through often drops of raine.
that fall vpon the same,
Doth weare, the mountaines hye,
and strongest holds of all,
In tyme may by some casualtye,
be forst to ground to fall,
Yea Nilus may in time,
(for all his scope of streames)
Be dryed vp, and cleane consumde,
through heate of Phebus beames,
but may in tyme conuart:
Except it be in womans brest,
a hawty stubborne harte.
Which neither reason, gentle wordes
nor pittie can procure,
For to reuoke hir wilfull minde.
that setled is so sure,
My wound was wondrous deepe,
the paines I did indure,
By meanes of thy great crueltie,
my sorrowes did procure,
For thou in whome it onely lay,
to remedy the same,
In steede of salue didst poyson yielde,
my ruine for to frame,
Oh cursed wretchlesse rase,
of wicked woman kinde,
How can your hartes so cruell be,
to them that you make blynde,
What hart of flinte hath he,
who hauing hurt a man,
That is his friend, to cure his payne,
will not doe what he can.
But thou a cruell Crocadile,
Ingendred in the floode,
Of foule Onilus wilt not graunt,
to doe thy pacient good.
Few women at this day doe lyue,
that guyde themselues so well,
But if one vertue good there be,
which in their brest doth dwell,
Two worser vices for the same,
is found in them to be,
Which doe the vertues cleane deface,
and force them for to flee,
to cause their friendes vnrest,
As the Chameleon chaungeth hue,
When as it likes him best,
If that they be disposde,
pore louers to allure,
They can as wily wayes inuent,
their purpose to procure,
As the Hiena can,
by learning of the name,
And calling them whose present death,
they purpose for to frame,
Such pittifull complaintes,
the Sirens can not make,
As can these wicked women doe,
if once they vndertake,
No beast so brute as they,
if once they fall to vice,
No asse more foolish then they are,
yet doe they thinke them wise.
If one their bewty praise,
then doe they looke so hye,
As though they straight wais would presume
to scale the lofty skye.
yet doe I not condemne herein,
all women to be ill,
But some yea euen the greatest part,
are subiect to their will,
As I haue had iust cause to say,
who proued haue the same,
Through thy vnkindnesse shewde to me,
O most disdainefull Dame,
And therefore humbly doe I craue,
of heauenly Ioue aboue.
That thou for this thy crueltye,
like greefe to myne maist proue,
of this my bitter vearse,
As one compeld by womans pride,
their dealinges to rehearse.
Finis.
| The Forrest of Fancy | |