University of Virginia Library

4.

[Let not the world beleive]

Let not the world beleive
the' accursing of my fate,
It endis to alluire and to condole
with me my tragicte state,
Nor that I have sent furthe
these stormie teeris of rage
So by disburding of my breast
my sorrowes to assuage.
No, no, that serves for noucht,
I crave no suche releef,
Nor will I ȝeild that any sould
be partiners of my greef.
My fantassie to feid,
I onlie spend thois teares
My plaintes playes me, no musick sound's
so sweetlie in my eares.
I wish that from my birth
I had acquanted beine
Still with mishap's and never had
but noyes and horrours seine,
Thenn Ignoraunte of Ioyes,
Lamenting as I doe,
As thinking all menn did the lyke
I micht content me to.
But ohe my fate was worse,
for it as in ane glas
Schow me throw lytle blenkes of bles
the state quherin I was,
Quhich wnperfyted Ioyes,
scairce constante for ane hour,
Was lyke but to ane waterie soonne
that schynnes befoir a schor,
For giue I euer thoucht
or rather dreem'd of Ioyes,
That lytle lichtning but foir shewde
a thunder of annoyes.
It was but lyke the fruite
that tantalus tormentes,
Quhich whill he sies and not attanes
his hunger but augments,
For sua the shaddow of
that but Imaginit mirth
Cald all the crosses to recoirde
I suffered since my birth,
Quhich are to be bewaill'd,
but hard to be redressit,
Quhois strange effect's may well be felt
but cannot be exprest.
Iudge what the feeling was
whenn thinking on thinges past,
I trimble at the torment ȝit
and stande ane tyme agast
Ȝit doe I noucht repent,
but will with patience pyne,
For thoucht I murne, I murmure not
lyke men yat doe repyne.
I grante I waile my lote,
ȝit I approve her will,
Quhat my saull oracle thinks gude
I never sall think ill.
Giue I had only sought
ane salue to ease my paines,
Long since I hade bewailled my lote
alongst the illisian plaines.
Ȝit mynde I noucht in this,
selff louer lyke to dyee,
As ane that cairt not for her lois
so I my self wer free.
No, may ten night's annoyes
mak her ane nicht secuire,
Ane day of dolour's vnto her
ane momentes mirth procure,
Ore may ane ȝeeres lament's
rejoyce her half ane hour,
May seavin ȝeir's sorrow's mak her glad,
I sall not think them sour.
And gif shee doeth delychte
to heere of my deseeis,
Thenn o, bleast I, quho soe maȝ haue
the occasioun her to pleas.
For now the caus I liue
is noucht for lufe of lyfe,
But onlie for to honour her
that holds me still in stryfe.
And ore these vowes I make
do vnperformit escaipe,
This world sall anes agane renverst
resoome her shaples shape,
But what, what haue I vowed,
my passiones wer too strong,
As giue the myldest of the world
delighted to doe wrong,
As schee quhom I adoire
with so devoite ane mynde
Could rest content to see me sterve,
be glade to see my pynde.
No, no, schee wailles my state
and wald appaȝs my caires,
Ȝet interdytit to the faites
confirmes her will to ther's.
Thenn O, vnhappie man,
whom evin thyne sanct wold saue,
And ȝit thy crewell destanie
doeth damne the to thy grave,
This sentence thenn may serve
for to confound my fear's,
Quhy brust I not my breist with sighis
and droune my eyes wt teirs?
Ohe I haif murnit sa muche
that I maȝ murne no moir,
My miseries pas numbring now,
plaintes perisch in yr scoir.
The meanes to vnloade my breast
does quyte begin to faill,
For being drunk with too much doole
I wate not how to waill.
And since I wante ane way
my anguishe to reveell,
Of force contented with my faite
I'll suffer and conceell,
And for to wishe the world
evin as my Loue wish'd me,
I vse ane countenance lyke to one
quhois mynde from greif wer free.
For quhenn shoe did disdaine,
shee schew'd ane smylling face,
Evin quhen that schoe denunc'd my deat,
schee sem'd to promeis grace.
So sall I seeme in schaw
my thoughtes for to repois,
Ȝit in the centure of my saull
sall shrow'd a world of woes.
Thenn wofull breast and eyes
ȝour restles cours controule,
And with na outward signes betraye
ye anguishe of my soule.
Eyes rayne ȝour shoures within,
arrouze ye eirth no moir,
Pas doune with a deludge of tear's
ye breast ȝe burnd befoir.
Breast arme ȝour seelf with sigh's,
giue ou'r waike to defend,
Thenn perishe by ȝour proper fyres
and mak ane honest end.