Eglogs, Epytaphes, and Sonettes Newly written by Barnabe Googe |
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To the Tune of Appelles. |
 | Eglogs, Epytaphes, and Sonettes |  |
To the Tune of Appelles.
The
rushyng Ryuers that do run
The valeys sweet adourned new
That leans their sides against ye Sun
wt Flours fresh of sūdry hew,
Both Ashe and Elme, and Oke so hye,
Do all lament my wofull crye.
The valeys sweet adourned new
That leans their sides against ye Sun
wt Flours fresh of sūdry hew,
Do all lament my wofull crye.
while winter blak, wt hydious stormes
Doth spoil ye groūd of Sōmers grene,
while springtime sweet ye leaf returns
That late on tree could not be sene,
while sōmer burns while haruest raīs
Stil styl do rage my restles paynes.
Doth spoil ye groūd of Sōmers grene,
while springtime sweet ye leaf returns
That late on tree could not be sene,
while sōmer burns while haruest raīs
Stil styl do rage my restles paynes.
No ende I find in all my smart,
But endles torment I sustayne
Synce fyrst alas, my wofull Hart
By sight of the was forst to playne,
Synce that I lost my Lybertie,
Synce that thou madste a Slaue of me
But endles torment I sustayne
Synce fyrst alas, my wofull Hart
By sight of the was forst to playne,
Synce that I lost my Lybertie,
Synce that thou madste a Slaue of me
My Hart that once abroade was free
Thy Beautie hath in durance brought
Ons reason rulde and guyded me,
And now is wyt cōsumde wt thought
Ons I reioysed aboue the Skye,
And now for the I alas I dye.
Thy Beautie hath in durance brought
Ons reason rulde and guyded me,
And now is wyt cōsumde wt thought
Ons I reioysed aboue the Skye,
And now for the I alas I dye.
Ons I reioysed in Companye,
And now my chief and whole delyght
Is from my frendes awaye to flye
And keepe alone my weryed spryght
Thy face deuyne and my desyre,
Frō flesh hath me transformed to fyre.
And now my chief and whole delyght
Is from my frendes awaye to flye
And keepe alone my weryed spryght
Thy face deuyne and my desyre,
Frō flesh hath me transformed to fyre.
O Nature thou that fyrst dyd frame,
My Ladyes heare of purest Golde
Her face of Crystall to the same.
Her lippes of precious Rubyes molde
Her necke of Alablaster whyte
Surmountyng far eche other Wight
My Ladyes heare of purest Golde
Her face of Crystall to the same.
Her lippes of precious Rubyes molde
Her necke of Alablaster whyte
Surmountyng far eche other Wight
Why dydst thou not that tyme deuise
Why dydst thou not forese before?
The mischyefe that therof doth ryse,
And grief on grief doth heap with stor
To make her Hart of War alone,
And not of Flynt and Marble Stone.
Why dydst thou not forese before?
The mischyefe that therof doth ryse,
And grief on grief doth heap with stor
To make her Hart of War alone,
And not of Flynt and Marble Stone.
O Lady showe thy fauour yet,
Let not thy Seruaunt dye for the
Where Rygour rulde, let Mercye fyt
Let Pytie Conquere Crueltie,
Let not Disdain, a Feend of Hell,
Posses the place, wher Grace shuld dwell.
Let not thy Seruaunt dye for the
Where Rygour rulde, let Mercye fyt
Let not Disdain, a Feend of Hell,
Posses the place, wher Grace shuld dwell.
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