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Tragicall Tales translated by Tvrbervile

In time of his troubles out of sundrie Italians, with the Argument and Lenuoye to eche Tale
Turberville, George (1540?-1610?)
  
[epigraph]
  
[dedication]

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[section]
  
To his verie friend Ro. Baynes.
  
Ro. Baynes to the Reader, in the due commendation of the Author.
  
The Authour here declareth the cause why hee wrote these Histories, and forewent the translation of the learned Poet Lucan.
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[Tragicall Tales.]
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EPITATHES and Sonnettes annexed to the Tragical histories, By the Author.
  
A farevvell to a mother Cosin, at his going tovvardes Moscouia.
  
That nothing can cause him to forget his frend, vvherein is toucht the hardnes of his trauayle.
  
He declares that albeit he were imprisoned in Russia, yet his minde was at libertie, & did daily repaire to his frend.
  
A comparison of his mistresse, with a braue Lady of Russia.
  
To his frend promising that though her beautie fade, yet his loue shall last.
  
From the citie of Mosqua, to his friend in England.
  
To his mistres, declaring his life only to depend of her lookes.
  
Virtuti comes inuidia.
  
That though he may not possible come or send, yet he liues mindfull of his mistresse in Moscouia.
  
To a faire gentlevvoman, false to hir friend.
  
A farewell to a craftie, deceitfull Dame.
  
Spare to speake, Spare to speede.
  
Wearie of long silence, he breakes his mind to his mistresse.
  
He vvisheth his dreames either longer or truer.
  
Vnable by long and hard trauell to banish loue, returnes hir friend.
  
That he findeth others as faire, but not so faithfull as his frend.
  
Trauailing the desert of Russia, he complayneth to Eccho, vvith request that she comfort his afflicted state.
  
He craues his mistresse to accept his wryting being otherwise insufficient to vvinne good liking from her.
  
The meane is best.
  
To his friend Edward Dancie of Deceit.
  
Of the right noble L. VVilliam, Earle of Pembroke his death.
  
Finding his Mistresse vntrue, he exclaimeth thereat.
  
A warning that she be not vncourteous.
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To one whom he had long loued, and at last was refused vvithout cause, and one imbraced that least deserued it.
  
An Epitaph vpon the death of Henry Sydhnam, and Giles Bampfield Gentlemen.
  
A letter begun to a Gentlewoman of some account, which was left of by means of the aduise of a friend of his, who said she was foresped.
  
To his friend not to change, though iealousie debarre him hir company.
  
To his frend not to forget him.
  
A vowe of Constancie.
  
Another Epitaph vpon the death of Henry Sydhnam, and Gyles Bampfield gent.
  
A louer deceiued, exclaimes against the deceiuer and hir kind.
  
Yet ere I die, receiue this Swan-like song, To ease my hart, and shew thine open wrong.
  
To his cruel mistresse.
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The Author being in Moscouia, wrytes to certaine his frendes in Englande of the state of the place, not exactly, but at all aduentures, and minding to haue descrybed all the Moscouites maners, brake off his purpose vpon some occasion. The three Epistles followe.
  
To his friend Nicholas Roscarock, to induce him to take a wife.
  
A gentlewomans excuse for executing vnlawfull partes of loue.
  
Of his Constancie.
  
The Authors Epilogue.
  
The Authors excuse for writing these and other fancies, with promise of grauer matter hereafter.

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To a faire gentlevvoman, false to hir friend.

VVithin the garden plot of thy faire face,
Doth grow a graffe of diuers qualities:
A matter rare within so little space,
A man to find such sundry properties:
For commonly the roote in euery tree,
Barcke, body, boughes, bud, leafe, and fruit agree.
First for the roote is rigor in the brest,
Treason the tree, that springeth of the same,
Beautie the barcke that ouerspreds the rest,
The boughes are braue, and climing vp to fame,
Braules be the buds that hang on euery bowe,
A blossom fit for such rootes to allowe.
Loue is the leafe that little time endures,
Flattrie the fruit which treasons tree doth beare,
Though beauties barste at first the eie allure,
Yet at the last ill will the worme, doth weare
Away the leafe, the blossoms, boughes, and all,
And rigors roote, makes beauties buds to fall.
Par essere ingrata, Non sarai amata.
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