 | The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable |  |
lxi
COMPLAYNTS OF MISFORTUNES IN LOVE.
lxii
[Now, now I love indeed, and suffer more]
Now, now I love indeed, and suffer more
In one day now then I did in a yeare;
Great flames they be which but small sparkles were,
And wounded now, I was but prickt before.
In one day now then I did in a yeare;
Great flames they be which but small sparkles were,
And wounded now, I was but prickt before.
No mervayle then, though more then heretofore
I weepe and sigh: how can great wounds be there
Where moysture runs not oute? and ever where
The fire is great of smoke there must be store.
I weepe and sigh: how can great wounds be there
Where moysture runs not oute? and ever where
The fire is great of smoke there must be store.
My heart was hetherto but like green wood,
Which must be dry'd before it will burn bright;
My former love served but my heart to drye;
Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good;
For now it burneth cleare, and shall give light
For all the worlde youre beautie to espie.
Which must be dry'd before it will burn bright;
My former love served but my heart to drye;
Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good;
For now it burneth cleare, and shall give light
For all the worlde youre beautie to espie.
lxiii
[Wonder it is, and pittie is't that shee]
Wonder it is, and pittie is't that shee
In whom all beauty's treasure we may finde
That may enritch the body and the mind,
Towards the poore should use no charitie.
In whom all beauty's treasure we may finde
That may enritch the body and the mind,
Towards the poore should use no charitie.
My love is gone a begging unto thee;
And if that Beauty had not beene more kind
Then pittie, long ere this he had beene pinde;
But Beautie is content his foode to bee.
And if that Beauty had not beene more kind
Then pittie, long ere this he had beene pinde;
But Beautie is content his foode to bee.
Oh, pittie have, when such poore Orphans beg:
Love (naked boy) hath nothing on his backe,
And though he wanteth neither arme or leg,
Yet maim'd he is, sith he his sight doth lacke;
And yet (though blinde) he beautie can behold;
And yet (though nak'd) he feeles more heate than cold.
Love (naked boy) hath nothing on his backe,
And though he wanteth neither arme or leg,
Yet maim'd he is, sith he his sight doth lacke;
And yet (though blinde) he beautie can behold;
And yet (though nak'd) he feeles more heate than cold.
lxiv
[Pitty refusing my poore Love to feede]
Pitty refusing my poore Love to feede,
A beggar starv'd for want of helpe he lies,
And at your mouth (the doore of Beauty) cries;
That thence some almes of sweete grants might proceede.
A beggar starv'd for want of helpe he lies,
And at your mouth (the doore of Beauty) cries;
That thence some almes of sweete grants might proceede.
But as he waiteth for some almes-deede
A cherrie tree before the doore he spies.
Oh deare (quoth he) two cherries may suffise,
Two only may save life in this my neede.
A cherrie tree before the doore he spies.
Oh deare (quoth he) two cherries may suffise,
Two only may save life in this my neede.
But beggars, can they naught but cherries eate?
Pardon my Love, he is a Goddesse' sonne,
And never feedeth but on daintie meate,
Els neede he not to pine as hee hath done;
For onely the sweet fruite of this sweete tree
Can give food to my Love, and life to mee.
Pardon my Love, he is a Goddesse' sonne,
And never feedeth but on daintie meate,
Els neede he not to pine as hee hath done;
For onely the sweet fruite of this sweete tree
Can give food to my Love, and life to mee.
lxv
[If that one care had oure two hearts possest]
If that one care had oure two hearts possest,
Or you once [OMITTED] what I long suffered,
Then should thy heart accuse in my heart's stead
The rigor of it selfe for myne unrest;
Or you once [OMITTED] what I long suffered,
Then should thy heart accuse in my heart's stead
The rigor of it selfe for myne unrest;
Then should thyne arme upon my shoulder rest,
And weight of griefe sway downe thy troubled head;
Then should thy teares upon my sheet be shed,
And then thy heart should pant upon my breast.
And weight of griefe sway downe thy troubled head;
Then should thy teares upon my sheet be shed,
And then thy heart should pant upon my breast.
But when that other cares thy heart doe seaze,
Alas! what succoure gayne I then by this,
But double griefe for thine and myne unease?
Yet when thow seest thy hurts to wound my heart,
And so art taught by me what pitye is,
Perhaps thy heart will learne to feele my smart.
Alas! what succoure gayne I then by this,
But double griefe for thine and myne unease?
Yet when thow seest thy hurts to wound my heart,
And so art taught by me what pitye is,
Perhaps thy heart will learne to feele my smart.
lxvi
[Vncivill sickness! hast thou no regard]
Vncivill sickness! hast thou no regard,
But doost presume my deerest to molest?
And, without leave, dar'st enter in that brest
Whereto sweet Love approch yet never dar'd?
But doost presume my deerest to molest?
And, without leave, dar'st enter in that brest
Whereto sweet Love approch yet never dar'd?
Spare thou her health, which my life hath not spar'd;
Too bitter such revenge of my unrest,
Although with wrongs my thought shee hath opprest,
My wrongs seeke not revenge; they crave reward.
Too bitter such revenge of my unrest,
Although with wrongs my thought shee hath opprest,
My wrongs seeke not revenge; they crave reward.
Cease Sicknesse, cease in her then to remaine,
And come and welcome, harbour thou in me,
Whom Love long since hath taught to suffer paine;
So shee which hath so oft my paine increast,
(O God, that I might so revenged be!)
By my poore paine might have her paine releast.
And come and welcome, harbour thou in me,
Whom Love long since hath taught to suffer paine;
So shee which hath so oft my paine increast,
(O God, that I might so revenged be!)
By my poore paine might have her paine releast.
lxvii
[Deare! though from me youre gratiouse lookes depart]
Deare! though from me youre gratiouse lookes depart,
And of that comfort doe my selfe bereave,
Which both I did deserve and did receave;
Triumph not overmuch in this my smarte.
And of that comfort doe my selfe bereave,
Which both I did deserve and did receave;
Triumph not overmuch in this my smarte.
Nay, rather they which now enjoy thy heart
For feare just cause of mourning should conceave,
Least thow inconstant shouldst theyre trust deceave
Which like unto the weather changing art.
For feare just cause of mourning should conceave,
Least thow inconstant shouldst theyre trust deceave
Which like unto the weather changing art.
For in foule weather byrds sing often will
In hope of fayre, and in fayre tyme will cease,
For feare fayre tyme should not continue still;
So they may mourne which have thy heart possest
For feare of change, and hope of change may ease
Theyre hearts whome griefe of change doth now molest.
In hope of fayre, and in fayre tyme will cease,
For feare fayre tyme should not continue still;
So they may mourne which have thy heart possest
For feare of change, and hope of change may ease
Theyre hearts whome griefe of change doth now molest.
lxviii
[If ever any justlye might complayne]
If ever any justlye might complayne
Of unrequited service, it is I;
Change is the thanks I have for loyaltye,
And onlye her rewarde is her disdayne.
Of unrequited service, it is I;
Change is the thanks I have for loyaltye,
And onlye her rewarde is her disdayne.
So as just spight did almost me constrayne,
Through torment, her due prayses to denye;
For he which vexed is with injurye
By speaking ill doth ease his heart of payne.
Through torment, her due prayses to denye;
For he which vexed is with injurye
By speaking ill doth ease his heart of payne.
But what, shall tortor make me wrong her name?
No, no, a pris'ner constant thinkes it shame,
Though he be rackt, his first truth to gaynsay.
Her true given prayse my first confession is.
Though her disdayn doe rack me night and day,
This I confest, and will denye in this.
No, no, a pris'ner constant thinkes it shame,
Though he be rackt, his first truth to gaynsay.
Her true given prayse my first confession is.
Though her disdayn doe rack me night and day,
This I confest, and will denye in this.
| The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable | |