 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
116
The extremitie of his Passion.
Among the toyes which tosse my braine,
and reave my mind from quiet rest,
This one I finde, doth there remaine,
to breede debate within my brest.
When wo would work, to wound my wyl,
I cannot weepe, nor waile my fyll.
and reave my mind from quiet rest,
This one I finde, doth there remaine,
to breede debate within my brest.
When wo would work, to wound my wyl,
I cannot weepe, nor waile my fyll.
My tongue hath not the skill to tell,
the smallest griefe which gripes my heart,
Mine eyes have not the power to swell,
into such Seas of secrete smart,
That will might melt to waves of woe,
and I might swelt in sorrowes so.
the smallest griefe which gripes my heart,
Mine eyes have not the power to swell,
into such Seas of secrete smart,
That will might melt to waves of woe,
and I might swelt in sorrowes so.
Yet shed mine eyes no trickling teares,
but flouddes which flowe abundauntly,
Whose fountaine first enforst by feares,
found out the gappe of jelousie.
And by that breache, it soketh so,
that all my face, is styll on flowe.
but flouddes which flowe abundauntly,
Whose fountaine first enforst by feares,
found out the gappe of jelousie.
And by that breache, it soketh so,
that all my face, is styll on flowe.
My voice is like the raging wind,
which roareth still, and never staies,
The thoughtes which tomble in my minde,
are like the wheele which whirles alwayes,
Nowe here, nowe there, nowe up, now downe,
in depth of waves, yet cannot drowne.
which roareth still, and never staies,
The thoughtes which tomble in my minde,
are like the wheele which whirles alwayes,
Nowe here, nowe there, nowe up, now downe,
in depth of waves, yet cannot drowne.
The sighes which boyle out of my brest,
are not lyke those, which others use,
For lovers sighes, sometimes take rest,
and lend their mindes, a leave to muse.
But mine are like the surging Seas,
whome calme nor quiet can appeas.
are not lyke those, which others use,
For lovers sighes, sometimes take rest,
and lend their mindes, a leave to muse.
But mine are like the surging Seas,
whome calme nor quiet can appeas.
And yet they be but sorrowes smoke,
my brest the fordge where furie playes,
My panting heart, yt strikes the stroke,
my fancie blowes the flame alwaies,
The coles are kindled by desire,
and Cupide warmes him by the fire.
my brest the fordge where furie playes,
My panting heart, yt strikes the stroke,
my fancie blowes the flame alwaies,
The coles are kindled by desire,
and Cupide warmes him by the fire.
117
Thus can I neyther drowne in dole,
nor burne to ashes though I waste,
Mine eyes can neyther quenche the cole,
which warmes my heart in all this haste.
Nor yet my fancie make such flame,
that I may smoulder in the same.
nor burne to ashes though I waste,
Mine eyes can neyther quenche the cole,
which warmes my heart in all this haste.
Nor yet my fancie make such flame,
that I may smoulder in the same.
Wherefore I come to seeke out Care,
beseeching him of curtesie,
To cut the thread which cannot weare,
by panges of such perplexitie.
And but he graunt this boone of mine,
thus must I live and ever pine.
beseeching him of curtesie,
To cut the thread which cannot weare,
by panges of such perplexitie.
And but he graunt this boone of mine,
thus must I live and ever pine.
Fato non fortuna.
| The Complete Works of George Gascoigne | |