The Complete Works of George Gascoigne :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where might I now find flooddes of flowing teares,
So to suffice the swelling of mine eyes?
How might my breast unlode the bale it beares?
Alas alas how might my tongue devise
To tell this weary tale in wofull wise?
To tell I saye these tydinges nowe of truth,
Which may provoke the craggy rockes to ruth?

In depth of dole would God that I were drownde,
Where flattering joyes might never find me out,
Or graved so within the greedy grounde,
As false delights might never breede my doubt,
Nor guilefull love hir purpose bring about:
Whose trustlesse traines in collours for to paint,
I find by proofe my wittes are all to faint.

I was that man whome destinies ordeine,
To beare eche griefe that groweth on the mold,
I was that man which proved to my paine,
More panges at once than can with tongue be told,
I was that man (hereof you maye be bold)
Whome heaven and earth did frame to scoffe and scorne,
I, I was he which to that ende was borne.

Suffized not my selfe to taste the fruite,
Of sugred sowres which growe in gadding yeares,
But that I must with paine of lyke pursute,
Perceive such panges by paterne of my peares,
And feele how fansies fume could fond my pheares?
Alas I find all fates against me bent,
For nothing else I lyve but to lament.

The force of friendship bound by holy othe,
Dyd drawe my wyll into these croked wayes,
For with my frend I went to Bathe (though loth)
To lend some comfort in his dollie dayes,
The stedfast friend stickes fast at all assayes:
Yet was I loth such time to spend in vaine,
The cause whereof, lo here I tell you playne.

126

By proofe I found as you may well perceive,
That all good counsell was but worne in wast,
Such painted paines his passions did deceive,
That bitter gall was mell to him in tast,
Within his will such rootes of ruine plast,
As graffes of griefes were only given to growe,
Where youth did plant and rash conceite did sowe.

I sawe at first his eares were open aye
To every tale which fed him with some hope,
As fast againe I sawe him turne away
From grave advise, which might his conscience grope,
From reasons rule his fancie lightly lope,
He only gave his mind to get that gaine,
Which most he wisht and least could yet attaine.

Not I alone, but many mo with me,
Had found what ficklenesse his Idoll used,
And how she claimed Cressides heire to be,
And how she had his great good will abused,
And how she was of many men refused,
Who tride hir tricks and knew hir by the kinde,
Save only him she made no lover blinde.

But what for this? whose face is plainer seene,
Than he which thinkes he walketh in a net?
Or who in bale hath ever deeper beene,
Than he which thought his state might not be bet?
In such a jollitye these lovers jet,
That weale to them doeth seeme to bee but wo,
And griefe seemes joye, they feede theyr fancyes so.

Tell him that reason ought to be his rule,
And he allowed no reason but his owne,
Tell him that best were quicklye to recule,
Before all force by feares were overthrowne,
And that his bale were better overblowne,
Then thus to pine remedylesse in griefe,
And he would saye that griefe was his reliefe.

127

Short tale to make so long he lyved thus,
Tyll at the last he gan in deede to dye,
Beleeve me Lordes (and by him that dyed for us)
I sawe him give to close his dying eye,
I sawe him stryve and strangle passingly.
And suche a griefe I tooke, that yet I not,
If he or I had then more griefe ygot.

But who hath seene a Lampe begyn to fade,
Which lacketh oyle to feede his lyngring lyght,
And then againe who so hath seene it made,
With oyle and weecke to last the longsome night.
Let him conceyve that I sawe such a sight.
Whereof to thinke (although I sighde erewhile)
Loe nowe I laughe my sorrowes to beguile.

Upon the stones a trampling steede we heard,
Which came ful straight unto our lodging doore,
And straight therwith we heard how one enquirde,
If such a Knight (as I describde before)
Were lodged there: the Hoast withouten more,
Sayd yes forsooth, and God he knowes (quod he)
He is as sicke as any man maye bee.

The messenger sware by no bugges I trowe,
But bad our hoast to bring him where he laye,
(Quod I to Bartholmew) I heare by lowe,
A voice which seemes somewhat of you to saye:
And eare that past not full a furlong waye,
Behold the man came stowping in at doore,
And truth to tell he syked wondrous sore.

At last from out his bosome dyd he take,
A Letter sealde yfolded fayre and well,
And kyssing it (I thinke for Mistresse sake)
He sayd to Bartholmew: Syr Knight be well,
Nowe reade these lines the which I neede not tell,
From whence they come: but make an ende of mone,
For you are sicke, and she is woe begone.

128

The theefe condemnde and gone to gallowe tree,
(If one crye Grace: lo here a Pardon prest)
Doth dye sometimes, when most he seemde to be,
From death redeemd, such bronts may breede in brest,
Twyxt sodaine joye, and thoughts which paine opprest,
The Romaine Widdowe dyed when she beheld,
Hir Sunne (whome earst She compted slaine in field).

So Bartholmew tweene griefe and sodaine joye,
Laye styll in traunce, me thinkes I see him yet,
And out of doubte it gave me such anoye,
To see him so, him selfe in fancies fret,
That sure I thought his eyes in head were set.
And that he laye (as some saye) drawing on,
Untill his breath and all were past and gone.

But high de[c]rees of heaven which had ordainde,
(For his decaye) a freshe delaye of paine,
Revived him: yet from his eyes downe raind,
Such rewfull teares as moved me to plaine,
The dolefull plight wherein he dyd remaine.
For trust me now, to see him sorrowe so,
It might have made a stone to melt in wo.

Thrise dyd his tongue beginne to tell his thought,
And thrise (alas) it foltred in his mouth,
With stopping sobbes and skalding sighes he sought
To utter that which was to me uncouth.
So staies the streame, when furiouslie it flouth.
And filles the dikes where it had wont to swimme,
Untill by force it breakes above the brimme.

At last (with paine) the first word that he spake,
Was this: Alas, and therewithall he stayed,
His feebled Jawes and hollowe voyce could make,
None other sounde, his thoughtes were all dismayed,
His hearye head full lowe in bosome layed.
Yet when he sawe me marke what he would saye,
He cryed right out Alas and welawaye.

129

Alas (quod he) deare friend behold this bloode,
And with that word he gan againe to sorrowne:
The messenger which in a studdye stoode,
Awakt at last: and in mine eare dyd rowne,
Saying: those lines which I have there throwen downe.
Were written all with blood of hir owne hande,
For whome he nowe in this distresse doth stande.

And since (quod he) She hath vouchsafed so,
To shead hir blood in witnesse of hir griefe,
Me thinkes he rather should relieve hir wo:
Then thus deny to send hir some reliefe.
Alas alas (quod he) she holdes him chiefe.
And well wote I (what ere his fansie bee)
There sittes no man so neere hir heart as hee.

Therewith he raysde his heavy head alight,
Askaunces Ha? in deede and thinkst thou so?
But out alas his weake and weary sprit,
Forbad his tongue in furder termes to go.
His thought sayd Haight, his sillie speache cryed Ho.
And thus he laye in dompes and dolefull trance,
Tyll darksome night dyd somewhat change his chance.

For when the light of day began to fade,
And courtins round about his bed were drawne,
A golden slomber dyd his lymmes invade,
And held him husht tyll daye againe gan dawne,
Whereby Dame quiet put him in a pawne,
To set his thoughts (which strived earst) at one,
And bad debate be packing to be gone.

Percase sweete love dyd lull him so on sleepe,
Perhaps Dame fansie rockt the Cradell too,
How so it were I take thereof no keepe,
With such conceiptes have I nothing to doo,
But when he wakt he asked plainly who,
Had brought him so from rage to quiet rest,
And who had borne the torments from his brest?

130

(Quod I) my friend: here is a letter lo,
Behold it here and be all hole againe,
What man were he that wyther would in wo,
Which thus might prosper in despite of paine?
Were he not worse then mad which would complaine,
On such a friend as this to me doth seeme?
Which (for thy health) hir blood doth not esteeme?

Thus much I sayd to comfort him God knowes,
(But what I thought that keepe I cloose in hold)
Sometimes a man must flatter with his foes,
And sometimes saye that brasse is bright as Gold:
For he that hath not all thinges as he would,
Must winke sometimes, as though he dyd not see,
And seeme to thinke thinges are not as they bee.

Dan Bartholmew gan take the briefe in hand,
And brake the seale, but when he saw the blood,
Good Lord how bolt upright his heere dyd stand?
For though the friendly wordes therein were good,
Yet many a thought they moved in his moode.
As well appeared by his flecked cheekes,
Nowe cherrye redde, nowe pale and greene as leekes.

I dreamt (quod he) that I was done to death,
And that I laye full colde in earth and claye,
But that I was restored unto breath,
By one that seemde lyke Pellycane to playe,
Who shed his blood to give me foode alwaye,
And made me live in spite of sorrowe styll,
See how my dreame agrees now with this byll?

His feebled wittes forgotten had there whyle,
By whome and howe he had this letter first,
But when he spyde the man, then gan he smile,
For secreete joye his heart dyd seeme to burst,
Now thought he best that (earst) he compted worst.
And lovingly he dyd the man embrace,
And askt howe farde the roote of all his grace?

131

See sodaine chaunge, see subtile sweete disceipte,
Behold how love can make his subjectes blinde,
Let all men marke hereby what guilefull baite,
Dan Cupide layeth to tyse the lovers minde:
Alacke alacke a slender thread maye binde,
That prysonor fast, which meanes to tarrye styll,
A lytle road correctes a ready wyll.

The briefe was writte and blotted all with gore,
And thus it sayde: Behold howe stedfast love,
Hath made me hardy (thankes have he therefore)
To write these wordes thy doubtes for to remove,
With mine owne blood: and yf for thy behove
These bloody lynes do not thy Cares convert:
I vowe the next shall bleede out of my heart.

I dwell to long upon this thriftlesse tale,
For Bartholmew was well appeasde hereby,
And feelingly he banished his bale,
Taking herein a tast of remedy,
By lyte and lyte his fittes away gan flye.
And in short space he dyd recover strength,
To stand on foote and take his horse at length.

So that we came to London both yfere,
And there his Goddesse tarryed tyll we came,
I am to blame to call hir Goddesse here,
Since she deservde in deede no Goddesse name,
But sure I thinke (and you may judge the same)
She was [to] him a Goddesse in his thought,
Although perhaps hir Shrines was overbought.

I maye not write what words betweene them past,
How teares of griefe were turnde to teares of joye,
Nor how their dole became delight at last.
Nor how they made great myrth of much anoye,
Nor how content was coyned out of coye,
But what I sawe and what I well maye write,
That (as I maye) I meane for to endite.

132

In lovely London love gan nowe renew,
This blooddye Letter made it battle much,
And all the doubtes which he in fansies drew,
Were done away as there had bene none such,
(But to him selfe) he bare no body grutch.
Him selfe (he sayde) was cause of all this wo,
Withouten cause that hir suspected so.

O loving Youthes this glasse was made for you,
And in the same you may your selves behold,
Beleeve me nowe not one in all your crew,
Which (where he loves) hath courage to be bold,
Your Cressides climes are alwaies uncontrold.
You dare not saye the Sunne is cleare and bright,
You dare not sweare that darkesome is the night.

Terence was wise which taught by Pamphilus,
Howe courage quailes where love beblinds the sence,
Though proofe of times makes lovers quarelous,
Yet small excuse serves love for just defence.
These Courtisanes have power by pretence
To make a Swan of that which was a Crowe,
As though blacke pitche were turned into Snowe.

Ferenda, She whome heaven and earth had framde,
For his decaye and to bewitche his wittes,
Made him nowe thinke him selfe was to be blamde,
Which causeles thus would fret himselfe in fittes,
Shee made him thinke that sorrowe sildome sittes,
Where trust is tyed in fast and faithfull knottes,
She sayd Mistrust was meete for simple sottes.

What wyl you more shee made him to beleeve,
That she first loved although she yonger were,
She made him thinke that his distresse dyd greeve,
Hir guiltlesse minde: and (that it might appeare,
Howe these conceiptes could joyne or hang yfere)
She dyd confesse howe soone shee yeelded his,
Such force (quod she) in learned men there is.

133

She furder sayde that all to true it was,
Howe youthfull yeares (and lacke of him alone)
Had made hir once to choose out brittle glasse,
For perfect Gold: She dyd confesse (with mone)
That youthfully shee bytte a worthlesse bone.
But that therein she tasted deepe delight,
That sayde shee not, nor I presume to write.

Shee sware (and that I beare full well in minde)
Howe Dyomede had never Troylus place,
Shee sayd and sware (how ever sate the winde)
That Admirals dyd never know hir case,
She sayd againe that never Noble Face,
Dyd please hir eye nor moved hir to change,
She sayd her minde was never geven to range.

She sayd and sayd that Bracelettes were ybound,
To hold him fast (but not to charme his thought)
She wysht therewith that she were deepely drownd,
In Ippocrace: if ever she had sought,
Or dronke, or smelt, or tane, or found, or bought,
Such Nectar droppes as she with him had dronke,
(But this were true) she wisht hir soule were sonke.

And to conclude, she sayde no printed rymes,
Could please hir so as his brave Triumphes dyd:
Why wander I? She cov'red all hir crimes,
With deepe disceipt, and all hir guiles she hyd,
With fained teares, and Bartholmew she ryd
With double gyrthes, she byt and whyned both,
And made him love where he had cause to loth.

These be the fruictes which grow on such desire,
These are the gaines ygot by such an art,
To late commes he that seekes to quenche the fire,
When flames possesse the house in every part,
Who lyst in peace to keepe a quiet hart.
Flye love betimes, for if he once oretake him,
Then seeld or never shall he well forsake him.

134

If once thou take him Tenaunt to thy brest,
No wrytte nor force can serve to plucke him thence,
No pylles can purge his humour lyke the rest,
He bydes in bones, and there takes residence,
Against his blowes no bucklar makes defence.
And though (with paine) thou put him from thy house,
Yet lurkes hee styll in corners lyke a Mouse.

At every hole he creepeth in by stelth,
And privilye he feedeth on thy crommes,
With spoiles unseene he wasteth all thy welth,
He playes boe peepe when any body commes,
And dastardlik he seemes to dread the drommes,
Although in deede in Embushe he awaytes,
To take thee stragling yf thou passe his straites.

So seemed now by Bartholmews successe,
Who yeelded sone unto this second charge,
Accusing styll him selfe for his distresse,
And that he had so languished at large,
Short worke to make: he had none other charge
To beare loves blowes, but styll to trust hir tale,
And pardon crave because he bread hir bale.

And thus he lyvde contented styll with craft,
Mistrusting most, that gave least cause of doubt,
He fledde mishappe and helde it by the haft,
He banisht bale and bare it styll about,
He let in love and thought to hold him out.
He seemde to bathe in perfect blisse againe,
When (God he knowes) he fostred privie paine.

For as the Tree which crooked growes by kinde,
(Although it be with propping underset)
In trackt of time to crooked course wyll twinde,
So could Ferenda never more forget,
The lease at large where she hir flinges had fet.
But rangde againe, and to hir byas fell,
Such chaunges chaunce where lust (for love) doth dwell.

135

And as it hapt (and God his wyll it was)
Dan Bartholmew perceyvde it very plaine,
So that perforce he let his pleasures passe,
And strave no more against the streame in vaine,
But therewithall he purchased such paine,
As yet I shrinke in minde thereof to muse,
And marvaile more howe he the same could use.

His lustlesse limmes which wonted were to syt,
In quiet chaire, with pen and paper prest,
Were armed nowe with helme and harnesse fyt,
To seeke adventures boldly with the best,
Hee went to warres that wont to live in rest.
And warres in deede he made withouten blowes,
For why his friendes were nowe become his foes.

Such was his hap to warre both night and daye,
To watche and warde at every time and tyde,
Though foes were farre yet skowted he alwaye,
And when they came he must their brontes abide.
Who ever fled he would his head not hyde.
For sure dispayre his corpse so close had armed,
That by deathes darte he could no whit be harmed.

In his Ensigne these collours gan he chuse,
Blacke, white, and greene, first blacke for morning mone,
Then white for chaste, because he did refuse,
(Thenceforth) to thinke but even of hir alone.
A bende of greene: for though his joyes were gone,
Yet should it seeme he hoped for a daye,
And in that bende his name he dyd displaye.

That selfe same name which in his will he wrote,
(You knowe my minde) when he was out of tune a,
When he subscribde (which may not bee forgote)
Howe that his name was Fato Non F[o]rtuna.
And as I gesse bicause his love was Una,
That played hir pranckes according to hir kinde,
He wrote these wordes hir best excuse to finde.

136

As who should saye, lo destenies me drive,
And happe could not have overthrowen me thus:
I constrew this because I do beleeve,
That once againe he wyll bee amorous,
I fere it muche by him that dyed for us,
And who so doubtes that causeles thus I faint
Let him but reade the greene Knights heavy plaint

Bartello he which writeth ryding tales,
Bringes in a Knight which cladde was all in greene,
That sighed sore amidde his greevous gales,
And was in hold as Bartholmew hath beene.
But (for a placke) it maye therein be seene,
That, that same Knight which there his griefes begonne,
Is Batts owne Fathers Sisters brothers Sonne.

Well since my borrell braine is all to bloont
To give a gesse what ende this man shall have,
And since he rageth not as he was woont,
Although sometimes he seeme (alite) to crave,
Yet wyll I not his doinges so deprave,
As for to judge (before I see his ende)
What harder happe his angrie starres can sende.

And therewithall my wearye muse desires,
To take her rest: and pardon craves also,
That shee presumde to bring hir selfe in bryers,
By penning thus this true report of wo:
With sillye grace these sorye rimes maye go,
In such a rancke as Bartholmew hath plast,
So that shee feares hir cunning is disgrast.

But take them yet in gree as they be ment,
And wayle with mee the losse of such a man:
I coumpt him lost because I see him bent,
To yeld againe where first his greefe began,
And though I cannot write as others can
Some mournefull verse to move you mone his fall,
Yet weepe (with me) you faythfull lovers all.

Finis. quod Dixit & Dixit.