 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
Dan Bartholmew his second Triumphe.
Fye pleasure fye, thou cloyest me with delight,
Thou fylst my mouth with sweete meates overmuch,
I wallowe styll in joye both daye and night.
I deeme, I dreame, I doe, I taste, I touch:
No thing but all that smelles of perfect blisse,
Fye pleasure fye, I cannot like of this.
Thou fylst my mouth with sweete meates overmuch,
I wallowe styll in joye both daye and night.
I deeme, I dreame, I doe, I taste, I touch:
No thing but all that smelles of perfect blisse,
Fye pleasure fye, I cannot like of this.
To taste (sometimes) a baite of bytter gall,
To drinke a draught of sower Ale (some season)
To eate browne bread with homely handes in Hall
Doth much encrease mens appetites by reason:
And makes the sweete more sugred that ensewes,
Since mindes of men do styll seeke after newes.
To drinke a draught of sower Ale (some season)
To eate browne bread with homely handes in Hall
Doth much encrease mens appetites by reason:
And makes the sweete more sugred that ensewes,
Since mindes of men do styll seeke after newes.
The pampred horse is seldome seene in breath,
Whose maunger makes his greace (oftimes) to melt,
The crammed Fowle comes quickly to his death.
Such coldes they catche in hottest happes that swelt.
And I (much like) in pleasure scawled styll,
Doe feare to starve although I feede my fill.
Whose maunger makes his greace (oftimes) to melt,
The crammed Fowle comes quickly to his death.
Such coldes they catche in hottest happes that swelt.
And I (much like) in pleasure scawled styll,
Doe feare to starve although I feede my fill.
It might suffice that love hath built his bowre,
Betwene my Ladies lively shyning eyes,
It were inough that Bewties fading flowre:
Growes ever freshe with hir in heavenly wise.
It had bene well that shee were faire of face,
And yet not robbe all other Dames of grace.
Betwene my Ladies lively shyning eyes,
It were inough that Bewties fading flowre:
Growes ever freshe with hir in heavenly wise.
It had bene well that shee were faire of face,
And yet not robbe all other Dames of grace.
104
To muse in minde, how wise, how faire, how good,
How brave, howe franke, how curteous, and how true,
My Lad[y] is: doth but inflame my blood,
With humors such, as byd my health adue.
Since happe alwaies when it is clombe on hye,
Doth fall full lowe, though earst it reachte the Skye.
How brave, howe franke, how curteous, and how true,
My Lad[y] is: doth but inflame my blood,
With humors such, as byd my health adue.
Since happe alwaies when it is clombe on hye,
Doth fall full lowe, though earst it reachte the Skye.
Lo pleasure lo, lo thus I leade a life,
That laughes for joye, and trembleth oft for dread,
Thy panges are such as call for changes knife,
To cut the twist, or else to stretch the thread,
Which holdes yfeere the bondell of my blisse,
Fye pleasure fye, I dare not trust to this.
That laughes for joye, and trembleth oft for dread,
Thy panges are such as call for changes knife,
To cut the twist, or else to stretch the thread,
Which holdes yfeere the bondell of my blisse,
Fye pleasure fye, I dare not trust to this.
Fato non fortuna.
| The Complete Works of George Gascoigne | |