 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
118
His libell of request exhibited to Care.
O curteous Care, whome others (cruell) call,
And raile upon thine honourable name,
O knife that canst cut of the thread of thrall,
O sheare that shreadst the seemerent sheete of shame,
O happye ende of every greevous game:
Vouchsafe O Prince, thy vassall to behold,
Who loves thee more, than can with tongue be told.
And nowe vouchsafe to pittie this his plaint,
Whose teares bewray,
His truth alway,
Although his feeble tongue be forst to faint.
And raile upon thine honourable name,
O knife that canst cut of the thread of thrall,
O sheare that shreadst the seemerent sheete of shame,
O happye ende of every greevous game:
Vouchsafe O Prince, thy vassall to behold,
Who loves thee more, than can with tongue be told.
And nowe vouchsafe to pittie this his plaint,
Whose teares bewray,
His truth alway,
Although his feeble tongue be forst to faint.
I must confesse O noble king to thee,
That I have beene a Rebell in my youth,
I preast alwaies in pleasures court to bee,
I fled from that, which Cupide still eschuth,
I fled from Care, lo now I tell the truth,
And in delightes, I loved so to dwell,
Thy heavenly house dyd seeme to me but hell.
Such was my rage, the which I now repent,
And pardon crave,
My soule to save,
Before the webbe of weary life be spent.
That I have beene a Rebell in my youth,
I preast alwaies in pleasures court to bee,
I fled from that, which Cupide still eschuth,
I fled from Care, lo now I tell the truth,
And in delightes, I loved so to dwell,
Thy heavenly house dyd seeme to me but hell.
Such was my rage, the which I now repent,
And pardon crave,
My soule to save,
Before the webbe of weary life be spent.
But marke what fruites dyd grow on such a tree,
What crop dyd rise upon so rashe sowne seede,
For when I thought my selfe in heaven to bee,
In depth of hell I drowned was in deede:
Whereon to thinke my heavie hart doth bleede:
Me thought I swumme in Seas of all delight,
When as I sunke in puddles of despight,
Alas alas I thought my selfe belov'd,
When deadly hate,
Did play checke mate,
With me poore pawne, that no such prancks had prov'd.
What crop dyd rise upon so rashe sowne seede,
For when I thought my selfe in heaven to bee,
In depth of hell I drowned was in deede:
Whereon to thinke my heavie hart doth bleede:
Me thought I swumme in Seas of all delight,
When as I sunke in puddles of despight,
Alas alas I thought my selfe belov'd,
When deadly hate,
Did play checke mate,
With me poore pawne, that no such prancks had prov'd.
119
This when I tryed (ay me) to be to true,
I wept for woe, I pined all for paine,
I tare my heere, I often chaunged hewe,
I left delight, with dollours to complaine.
I shund each place where pleasure dyd remaine,
I cride, I calde on every kinde of death,
I strove eache way to stop my fainting breath.
Short tale to make, I stept so farre in strife,
That still I sought,
With all my thought,
Some happie helpe to leave my lothed life.
I wept for woe, I pined all for paine,
I tare my heere, I often chaunged hewe,
I left delight, with dollours to complaine.
I shund each place where pleasure dyd remaine,
I cride, I calde on every kinde of death,
I strove eache way to stop my fainting breath.
Short tale to make, I stept so farre in strife,
That still I sought,
With all my thought,
Some happie helpe to leave my lothed life.
But hope was he that held my hande abacke,
From quicke dispatch of all my griping griefe,
When heate of hate had burnt my will to wracke,
Then hope was colde, and lent my life reliefe,
In every choice hope challengde to be chiefe.
When coldest crampes had cleane orecome my heart,
Then hope was hote, and warnde my weary smart,
[W]hen heart was heardie, hope was still in dread,
When heart was faint,
(With feares attaint,)
Then hardie hope held up my fearefull head.
From quicke dispatch of all my griping griefe,
When heate of hate had burnt my will to wracke,
Then hope was colde, and lent my life reliefe,
In every choice hope challengde to be chiefe.
When coldest crampes had cleane orecome my heart,
Then hope was hote, and warnde my weary smart,
[W]hen heart was heardie, hope was still in dread,
When heart was faint,
(With feares attaint,)
Then hardie hope held up my fearefull head.
Thus when I found that neither flowing teares,
Could drowne my heart in waves of wery wo,
Nor hardy hand could overcome my feares,
To cut the sacke of all my sorrowes so,
Nor death would come, nor I to death could go.
And yet I felt great droppes of secrete smart,
Distilling styll within my dying heart:
I then perceivde that onely care was he,
Which as my friend,
Might make an end,
Of all these paines, and set my fansie free.
Could drowne my heart in waves of wery wo,
Nor hardy hand could overcome my feares,
To cut the sacke of all my sorrowes so,
Nor death would come, nor I to death could go.
And yet I felt great droppes of secrete smart,
Distilling styll within my dying heart:
I then perceivde that onely care was he,
Which as my friend,
Might make an end,
Of all these paines, and set my fansie free.
Wherefore (oh Care) graunt thou my just request,
Oh kyll my corpse, oh quickly kyll me nowe.
Oh make an ende and bring my bones to rest,
Oh cut my thread (good Care) I care not howe,
Oh Care be kinde: and here I make a vowe,
That when my life out of my brest shall part,
I wyll present thee with my faithfull hart:
And send it to thee as a Sacrifice,
Bicause thou hast,
Vouchsaft at last,
To ende my furies in this friendly wise.
Oh kyll my corpse, oh quickly kyll me nowe.
Oh make an ende and bring my bones to rest,
Oh cut my thread (good Care) I care not howe,
Oh Care be kinde: and here I make a vowe,
120
I wyll present thee with my faithfull hart:
And send it to thee as a Sacrifice,
Bicause thou hast,
Vouchsaft at last,
To ende my furies in this friendly wise.
Fato non Fortuna.
| The Complete Works of George Gascoigne | |