 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
Dan Bartholmewes Dolorous discourses.
I have entreated care to cut the thread,Which all to long hath held my lingring life,
And here aloofe nowe have I hyd my head,
From company thereby to stint my strife.
This solitarye place doth please me best,
Where I may weare my wylling mind with moane,
And where the sighes which boyle out of my brest,
May skald my heart, and yet the cause unknowne.
All this I doe, for thee my sweetest sowre,
For whome (of yore) I counted not of care,
For whome with hungrie jawes I dyd devoure
The secrete baite which lurked in the snare:
For whome I thought all forreine pleasures paine,
For whome againe, all paine dyd pleasure seeme,
But onely thine, I found all fansies vaine,
But onely thine, I dyd no dolours deeme.
Such was the rage, that whilome dyd possesse,
The privie corners of my mazed mind:
When hote desire, dyd compt those tormentes lesse
Which gaind the gaze that dyd my freedome bind.
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And call to mind the quiet lyfe I led,
Before I first beheld thy golden rayes,
When thine untrueth yet troubled not my hed.
Remember thou, as I can not forget,
Howe I had layde, both love, and lust aside,
And howe I had my fixed fancie set,
In constant vowe, for ever to abide.
The bitter proofe of panges in pleasure past,
The costlye tast, of hony mixt with gall:
The painted heaven, which turnde to hell at last.
The freedome fainde, which brought me but to thrall.
The lingring sute, well fed with freshe delayes,
The wasted vowes which fled with every winde:
The restlesse nightes, to purchase pleasing dayes,
The toyling daies to please my restlesse minde.
All these (with mo) had brused so my brest,
And graft such grefe within my groning heart,
That had I left Dame fansie and the rest,
To greener yeeres, which might endure the smart.
My wearie bones did beare away the skarres,
Of many a wound received by disdaine:
So that I found the fruite of all those warres,
To be naught else but panges of unknowen paine.
And nowe mine eyes were shut from such delight,
My fansie faint, my hote desires were colde,
When cruell hap, presented to my sight
The maydens face, in yeeres which were not olde.
I thinke the Goddesse of revenge devisde,
So to bee wreackt on my rebelling wyll,
Bicause I had in youthfull yeeres dispisde,
To taste the baites, which tyste my fansie styll.
Howe so it were, God knowes, I cannot tell:
But if I lye, you Heavens, the plague be mine,
I sawe no sooner, how delight dyd dwell
Betweene those litle infantes eyes of thine,
But straight a sparkling cole of quicke desire,
Dyd kindle flame within my frozen heart,
And yelding fansie softly blewe the fire,
Which since hath bene the cause of all my smart.
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Howe much I tendred thee in tender yeares:
Thy life was then to me (God knowes) full deare,
My life to thee is light, as nowe appeares.
I loved the first, and shall do to my last,
Thou flattredst first, and so thou wouldst do styll:
For love of thee full many paines I past,
For deadly hate thou seekest me to kyll.
I cannot nowe, with manly tongue rehearse,
How sone that melting mind of thine dyd yelde,
I shame to write, in this waymenting verse,
With howe small fight, I vanquisht thee in fielde:
But Cæsar he, which all the world subdude,
Was never yet so proude of Victorye,
Nor Hanyball, with martiall feates endude,
Dyd so much please himselfe in pollicie,
As I (poore I) dyd seeme to triumphe then,
When first I got the Bulwarkes of thy brest,
With hote Alarmes I comforted my men,
In formost ranke I stoode before the rest,
And shooke my flagge, not all to shewe my force,
But that thou mightst thereby perceive my minde:
Askaunces lo, nowe coulde I kyll thy corce,
And yet my life is unto thee resinde.
Well let this passe, and thinke uppon the joye,
The mutuall love, the confidence, the trust,
Whereby we both abandoned annoye,
And fed our mindes with fruites of lovely lust.
Thinke on the Tythe, of kysses got by stealth,
Of sweete embracinges shortened by feare.
Remember that which did maintaine our helth,
Alas alas why shoulde I name it here.
And in the midst of all those happie dayes,
Do not forget the chaunges of my chaunce,
When in the depth of many waywarde wayes,
I onely sought, what might thy state advaunce.
Thou must confesse how much I carde for thee,
When of my selfe, I carde not for my selfe,
And when my hap was in mishappes to be,
Esteemd thee more, than al the worldly pelfe.
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When thou hadst found a fond and newfound choice:
For lacke of thee I sunke in endlesse mone,
When thou in chaunge didst tumble and rejoyce.
O mighty goddes needes must I honor you,
Needes must I judge your judgmentes to be just,
Bicause she did for sake him that was true,
And with false love, did cloke a fained luste.
By high decrees, you ordayned the chaunge,
To light on such, as she must needes mislike,
A meete rewarde for such as like to raunge,
When fansies force, their feeble fleshe doth strike.
But did I then give brydle to thy fall,
Thou head strong thou accuse me if thou can?
Did I not hazard love yea life and all,
To warde thy will, from that unworthy man?
And when by toyle I travayled to finde,
The secrete causes of thy madding moode,
I found naught else but tricks of Cressides kinde,
Which playnly provde, that thou weart of hir bloud.
I found that absent Troylus was forgot,
When Dyomede had got both brooch and belt,
Both glove and hand, yea harte and all god wot,
When absent Troylus did in sorowes swelt.
These tricks (with mo) thou knowst thy self I found,
Which nowe are needelesse here for to reherse,
Unlesse it were to touche a tender wound,
With corosives my panting heart to perse.
But as the Hounde is counted little worth,
Which giveth over for a losse or twaine,
And cannot find the meanes to single forth
The stricken Deare which doth in heard remaine:
Or as the kindly Spaniell which hath sprong
The prety Partriche, for the Falcons flight,
Doth never spare but thrusts the thornes among,
To bring this byrd yet once againe to sight,
And though he knowe by proofe (yea dearely bought)
That selde or never, for his owne availe,
This wearie worke of his in vaine is wrought,
Yet spares he not but labors tooth and nayle.
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Which reckelesse then, was running on the rockes,
And though I saw thee seeme to hang the lyppe,
And set my great good wyll, as light as flockes:
Yet hauld I in, the mayne sheate of the minde,
And stayed thy course by ancors of advice,
I woon thy wyll into a better winde,
To save thy ware, which was of precious price.
And when I had so harbored thy Barke,
In happy haven, which saufer was than Dover,
The Admyrall, which knewe it by the marke,
Streight challengde all, and sayd thou wert a rover.
Then was I forst in thy behalfe to pleade,
Yea so I dyd, the Judge can saye no lesse,
And whiles in toyle, this lothsome life I leade,
Camest thou thy selfe the faulte for to confesse,
And downe on knee before thy cruell foe,
Dydst pardon crave, accusing me for all,
And saydst I was the cause, that thou didst so,
And that I spoone the thred of all thy thrall.
Not so content, thou furthermore didst sweare
That of thy selfe thou never ment to swerve,
For proofe wherof thou didst the colours weare,
Which might bewray, what saint thou ment to serve.
And that thy blood was sacrificed eke,
To manyfest thy stedfast martyrd mynde,
Till I perforce, constraynd thee for to seeke,
These raging seas, adventures there to finde.
Alas, alas, and out alas for me,
Who am enforced, thus for to repeate
The false reports and cloked guyles of thee,
Whereon (to oft) my restlesse thoughts do beate.
But thus it was, and thus God knowes it is.
Which when I founde by playne and perfect proofe,
My musing minde then thought it not amisse,
To shrinke aside, lamenting all aloofe,
And so to beate my simple shiftlesse brayne,
For some device, that might redeeme thy state.
Lo here the cause, for why I take this payne,
Lo how I love the wight which me doth hate:
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Whereas I bathe not now in blisse pardie,
But boyle in Bale and skamble thus in skathe,
Bycause I thinke on thine unconstancie.
And wylt thou knowe howe here I spend my time,
And howe I drawe my dayes in dolours styll?
Then staye a while: give eare unto my rime,
So shalt thou know the weight of all my wyll.
When Titan is constrained to forsake,
His Lemans couche, and clymeth to his carte,
Then I begin to languishe for thy sake,
And with a sighe, which maye bewray my smarte,
I cleare mine eyes whome gumme of teares had glewed,
And up on foote I set my ghostly corse,
And when the stony walles have oft renewed
My pittious plaintes, with Ecchoes of remorce,
Then doe I crye and call upon thy name,
And thus I saye, thou curst and cruell bothe,
Beholde the man, which taketh griefe for game,
And loveth them, which most his name doe lothe.
Behold the man which ever truely ment,
And yet accusde as aucthour of thine yll,
Behold the man, which all his life hath spent
To serve thy selfe, and aye to worke thy wyll:
Behold the man, which onely for thy love,
Dyd love himselfe, whome else he set but light:
Behold the man, whose blood (for thy behove)
Was ever prest to shed it selfe outright.
And canst thou nowe condemne his loyaltie?
And canst thou craft to flatter such a friend?
And canst thou see him sincke in jeoperdie?
And canst thou seeke to bring his life to ende?
Is this the right reward for such desart?
Is this the fruite of seede so timely sowne?
Is this the price, appointed for his part?
Shall trueth be thus by treason overthrowne?
Then farewell faith, thou art no womans pheare:
And with that word I staye my tongue in time,
With rolling eyes I loke about eache where,
Least any man should heare my raving rime.
112
I take my sheete, my slippers and my Gowne,
And in the Bathe from whence but late I came,
I cast my selfe in dollours there to drowne.
There all alone I can my selfe conveye,
Into some corner where I sit unseene,
And to my selfe (there naked) can I saye,
Behold these braunefalne armes which once have bene
Both large and lustie, able for to fight,
Nowe are they weake, and wearishe God he knowes
Unable now to daunt the fowle despight,
Which is presented by my cruel foes.
My thighes are thin, my body lanck and leane,
It hath no bumbast now, but skin and bones:
And on mine Elbowe as I lye and leane,
I see a trustie token for the nones.
I spie a bracelet bounde about mine arme,
Which to my shaddowe seemeth thus to saye,
Beleeve not me: for I was but a Charme,
To make thee sleepe, when others went to playe.
And as I gaze thus galded all with griefe,
I finde it fazed almost quite in sunder,
Then thinke I thus: thus wasteth my reliefe,
And though I fade, yet to the world, no wonder.
For as this lace, by leysure learnes to weare,
So must I faint, even as the Candle wasteth,
These thoughts (deere sweet) within my brest I beare,
And to my long home, thus my life it hasteth.
Herewith I [f]eele the droppes of sweltring sweate,
Which trickle downe my face, enforced so,
And in my body feele I lykewise beate,
A burning heart which tosseth too and fro.
Thus all in flames I sinderlyke consume,
And were it not that wanhope lendes me wynde,
Soone might I fret my fa[n]cyes all in fume,
And lyke a Ghost my ghost his grave might finde.
But frysing hope doth blowe ful in my face,
And colde of cares becommes my cordiall,
So that I styl endure that yrksome place,
Where sorrowe seethes to skalde my skinne withal.
113
Or weary woes do make me change my seate,
Then in my bed my restlesse paines revives,
Until my fellowes call me downe to meate.
And when I ryse, my corpse for to araye,
I take the glasse, sometimes (but not for pride,
For God he knowes my minde is not so gaye)
But for I would in comelynesse abyde:
I take the glasse, wherein I seeme to see,
Such wythred wrinckles and so fowle disgrace,
That lytle marvaile seemeth it to mee,
Though thou so well dydst like the noble face.
The noble face was faire and freshe of hewe,
My wrinckled face is fowle and fadeth fast:
The noble face was unto thee but newe,
My wrinckled face is olde and cleane outcast:
The noble face might move thee with delight,
My wrinckled face could never please thine eye:
Loe thus of crime I covet thee to quite.
And styll accuse my selfe of Surcuydry:
As one that am unworthy to enjoye,
The lasting fruite of suche a love as thine,
Thus am I tickled styll with every toye,
And when my Fellowes call me downe to dyne,
No chaunge of meate provokes mine appetite,
Nor sauce can serve to taste my meates withall,
Then I devise the juyce of grapes to dight,
For Sugar and for Sinamon I call,
For Ginger, Graines, and for eche other spice,
Wherewith I mixe the noble Wine apace,
My Fellowes prayse the depth of my devise,
And saye it is as good as Ippocrace.
As Ippocrace saye I? and then I swelt,
My faynting lymmes straight fall into a sowne,
Before the taste of Ippocrace is felt,
The naked name in dollours doth mee drowne,
For then I call unto my troubled mynde,
That Ippocrace hath bene thy daylye drinke,
That Ippocrace hath walkt with everye winde.
In bottels that were fylled to the brinke,
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With Ippocrace thou madst thy selfe full merrye,
Such cheere had set thy new love so alofte,
That olde love nowe was scarcely worth a cherry.
And then againe I fall into a traunce,
But when my breth returnes against my wyll,
Before my tongue can tell my wofull chaunce,
I heare my fellowes how they whisper still.
One sayth that Ippocrace is contrary,
Unto my nature and complexion,
Whereby they judge that all my malladye,
Was long of that by alteration.
An other sayth, no, no this man is weake,
And for such weake, so hote thinges are not best,
Then at the last I heare no lyar speake,
But one which knowes the cause of mine unrest,
And sayth, this man is (for my life) in love,
He hath received repulse, or dronke disdaine.
Alas crye I: and ere I can remove,
Into a sowne I sone returne againe.
Thus drive I foorth, my doolefull dining time,
And trouble others with my troubles styll,
But when I here, the Bell hath passed prime,
Into the Bathe I wallowe by my wyll,
That there my teares (unsene) might ease my griefe,
For though I starve yet have I fed my fill,
In privie panges I count my best relife.
And still I strive in weary woes to drench,
But when I plondge, than woe is at an ebbe,
My glowing coles are all to quicke to quenche.
And I (to warme) am wrapped in the webbe,
Which makes me swim against the wished wave,
Lo thus (deare wenche) I leade a lothsome life,
And greedely I seeke the greedy grave,
To make an ende of all these stormes and strife,
But death is deafe, and heares not my desire,
So that my dayes continewe styl in dole,
And in my nightes I feele the secrete fire,
Which close in embers, coucheth lyke a cole,
And in the daye hath bene but raked up,
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Now breakes it out, and boyles the careful cuppe,
Which in my heart doth hang full heavily.
I melt in teares, I swelt in chilling sweat,
My swelling heart, breakes with delay of paine,
I freeze in hope, yet burne in haste of heate,
I wishe for death, and yet in life remaine.
And when dead sleepe doth close my dazeled eyes,
Then dreadful dreames my dolors do encrease.
Me thinkes I lie awake in wofull wise,
And see thee come, my sorrowes for to cease.
Me seemes thou saist (my good) what meaneth this?
What ayles thee thus to languish and lament?
How can it be that bathing all in blisse:
Such cause unknowne disquiets thy content?
Thou doest me wrong to keepe so close from me
The grudge or griefe, which gripeth now thy heart,
For well thou knowest, I must thy partner be
In bale, in blisse, in solace, and in smarte.
Alas, alas, these things I deeme in dreames,
But when mine eyes are open and awake,
I see not thee: where with the flowing streames,
Of brinishe teares their wonted floods do make.
Thus as thou seest I spend both nightes and dayes,
And for I find the world did judge me once,
A witlesse wryter of these lovers layes,
I take my pen and paper for the nonce,
I laye aside this foolishe ryding rime,
And as my troubled head can bring to passe,
I thus bewray the torments of my time:
Beare with my Muse, it is not as it was.
Fato non fortuna.
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