University of Virginia Library

Descripcion of the restlesse state of a louer,

with sute to his ladie, to rue on his diyng hart.

The sonne hath twise brought furth his tender grene,
And clad the earth in liuely lustinesse:
Ones haue the windes the trees despoiled clene,
And new again begins their cruelnesse,
Since I haue hid vnder my brest the harm
That neuer shall recouer healthfulnesse.
The winters hurt recouers with the warm:
The parched grene restored is with shade.
What warmth (alas) may serue for to disarm
The frosen hart that mine in flame hath made?
What colde againe is able to restore
My fresh grene yeares, that wither thus and fade?
Alas, I se, nothing hath hurt so sore,
But time in time reduceth a returne:
In time my harm increaseth more and more,
And semes to haue my cure alwaies in scorne.
Strange kindes of death, in life that I doe trie,
At hand to melt, farre of in flame to burne.
And like as time list to my cure aply,
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse.
All thing aliue, that seeth the heauens with eye,
With cloke of night may couer, and excuse
It self from trauail of the dayes vnrest,
Saue I, alas, against all others vse,
That then stirre vp the tormentes of my brest,
And curse eche sterre as causer of my fate.
And when the sonne hath eke the dark opprest,
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The trauailes of mine endles smart and payn,
For then, as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night, more couertly to playn,
And me withdraw from euery haunted place,
Lest by my chere my chance appere to playn:
And in my minde I measure pace by pace,
To seke the place where I my self had lost,
That day that I was tangled in the lace,
In semyng slack that knitteth euer most:
But neuer yet the trauaile of my thought
Of better state coulde catche a cause to bost.
For if I found sometime that I haue sought,
Those sterres by whome I trusted of the porte,
My sayles doe fall, and I aduance right nought,
As ankerd fast, my spretes doe all resorte
To stande agazed, and sinke in more and more
The deadly harme which she dothe take in sport.
Lo, if I seke, how I doe finde my sore:
And yf I flee I carie with me still
The venomde shaft, whiche dothe his force restore
By hast of flight, and I may plaine my fill
Unto my selfe, vnlesse this carefull song
Printe in your harte some parcell of my tene
For I, alas, in silence all to long
Of myne olde hurte yet fele the wounde but grene.
Rue on my life: or els your cruell wronge
Shall well appere, and by my death be sene.