Newe Sonets :: :: University of Virginia Library

Who lust to vewe the heauy happes,
Of faythfull louers longe a go,
And eke suruaye their after clappes,
Muste needes me thinkes lament for woe,
If that my hart were framd of flynte
From teares yet hardly might it stinte.

I reade some time of Sephalus,
A lusty youth of noble blood,
Of face and fauor amorus
In Natures fauour far he stoode,
It neare woulde make a man agaste,
To marke hys lymbs and members plast.

So streight, so square, so trym was he,
So fayre of forme so wyse and sage,
He semde a sample sure to be,
And Lantarne to the yonger age,
And to conclude, he passed those,
That thought they made a goodly glose.

This brute (as youth will haue a spurte,
When lusty blood be gyns to broyle,)
Dyd flee from fredom to the courte,
Where Uenus only kepes the coyle,
Thus reason banisht quite a waye,
He warneth will to beare the swaye.

Then fancy forced by and by,
The wandringe eyes as skowtes to bee,
In secret sorte for to espie,
Or publykely to marke and see,
If any Lady weare in sight,
That might deserue this worthie knyght.

But sone alas they haue espyde,
The marke wheareat they shot so longe,
Faire Procris bewtie is descryde,
She blazde so bright her mates amonge,
Lo Sephalus doth nowe be gynne,
His Ladyes fauor fyrst to wynne.

Fewe daies were past lesse yeares were spēt
Tyll flattringe Fortune strake the stroke,
To loue eche other both were bent,
Loue did them both so sore prouoke,
What will you more if Fortune saye,
Yt shalbe thus saye you not naye.

Now nothinge greeued Sephalus,
But for to be a brydged fro,
His Ladies sight most gloryus
What greater greef might any grow
Fayre Procris Parents were so hard,
That she as Byrde in Cage was barde.

But Sephalus by fyne deuyse,
Of wytty hed and wary wyt,
Did put in practyse to intyse,
His Ladie thence what hap shoulde hit,
By letter then he did conclude,
That she her kepers should delude.

And to a Forest bye a pace,
Which he in letter namd also,
Where he did meane to byde her grace,
If that it woulde her pleace to goe,
The letters red shee sought his will.
In euery poynte for to fulfyll.

And to the apoynted place shee hide,
Expectinge still her Sephalus,
She gaue the slippe vnto her gyde,
Oh tracte of tyme most tedyus,
Oh Procris sure thine is the wronge,
That Sephalus a bydes so longe.

But neuer is the same to longe,
The Prouerbe sayth that comes at last
She spyde him in the ende amonge,
A sort of trees not makyng hast,
His Boowe was bent his arowe fast,
In Nut to shoote alredy plast.

She would not call for feare of foes,
Nor yet to hym she woulde repayre,
Lest that she shoulde the Deere vnroes,
That Sephalus had spyde at layre,
She geues him leaue to range his fill,
Full loth she is his sporte to spill.

The tyme did passe no game was founde,
And Sephalus was welnere tyrde,
Fayre Procris absence did hym wounde
For she was all that he desyrde,
Hee stoode not still he trugde about,
To se if he might fynde her out.

Lo fortune brought him nere the place,
Where Procris still alas did stande,
She blusshed yet to shewe her face,
She made no sygne but with her hand,
She tooke the bowes and them did shake,
A fearde to great a noyse to make.

But Sephalus when he espyde,
The leaues to wagge and bowes to shake,
He thought some beast did there him hyde,
And at hys commynge did awake,
Wherfore to see he thought it best,
If he might fynde him takinge rest.

And as he peeped here and theare,
He spyde a thinge of coler darke,
And iudginge it an ouglie Beare,
Dyschardgde hys bowe and hit the marke,
Through sturdy stroke and deadly wound,
He nayled Procris to the grownde.

Alas vnwares did Sephalus,
His Ladie kill and murder thus,
Oh greeff of greefs most dolorous,
Oh hap of Happs most pyteous
Deare Ladies steppe your foote to myne
To mourne with me your hartes inclyne.

When Sephalus his Procris founde,
Imbrude with blood on euery side
The arowe stickinge in the wounde,
That bleedinge sore did gape full wyde,
He curst the gods that skies possest
The systers three and all the rest.

And fayntly spake, no Ladie no,
You shall not vanishe hence a lone,
My ghoste alas your frendly foo,
Shall wayte your precyous soule vpon,
And wyth that worde to ende his lyfe,
He slue him selfe with bloody knyfe.

Lo Lordynges, here by take a vewe,
And Ladies marke what I shall saye,
Eche one to lyfe must say adue,
And to the earthe her owne repaye,
There is no choyse we see it so,
When death doth call we needs must go.

Finis.