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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?)

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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.

[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.

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.

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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Wearie of long silence, he breakes his mind to his mistresse.

Not much vnlike the horse
that feeles himself orprest
With weightie burthen on his backe,
doth long to be at rest:
So I, whose boiling brest,
with fansies floud did flow,

[155]

Had great desire my great good will
with painting pen to show,
To ease my wofull hart
of long endured paine,
And purchace quiet to my mind,
whom loue wel nie hath slaine.
Beleeue my words (deare dame)
dissembling is a sinne,
Not mine, but thine, these many days
my captiue hart hath bin.
But shame, and coward feare,
the louers mortall foes,
Would neuer condescend that I
my meaning should disclose.
Till now at length desire
my wonted ease to gaine:
Did bid me sue for grace, and said
I should not sue in vaine.
For as thy beautie is
farre brauer than the rest,
So bountie must of force abound
within thy noble brest.
Oh, seeke not thou to shed
or sucke of yeelding blood:
Alas, I thinke to murther me
would do thee little good.
Whom if you seeme to rue,
as I do hope you will,

156

In prayse of your good nature then
my hand shall shew his skill.
Lo here in pawne of loue,
I vowe my selfe to thee:
A slaue, a seruant, and a friend
till dying day to bee.