The pilgrime and heremite In forme of a Dialogue, By Master Alexander Craig |
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The Heremite his Complaint.
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 | The pilgrime and heremite |  |
The Heremite his Complaint.
So
manie thinges before haue perfect Poets pende,
For to expresse their piercing paines, and cause their Cares bee kende,
That nought is left, alace, for most vnhappie mee,
In Skyes aboue, on earth beneath, nor in the glassie Sea.
No Metaphoricks Phrase, no high Invention braue:
No Allegorie sweete Conceit, no Theame sublime and graue:
But all thinges else are saide, which I can write or say:
Thus in effect I wot not how my wracks for to bewray.
For to expresse their piercing paines, and cause their Cares bee kende,
That nought is left, alace, for most vnhappie mee,
In Skyes aboue, on earth beneath, nor in the glassie Sea.
No Metaphoricks Phrase, no high Invention braue:
No Allegorie sweete Conceit, no Theame sublime and graue:
But all thinges else are saide, which I can write or say:
Thus in effect I wot not how my wracks for to bewray.
And nothing doeth aggrege my griping griefe so much,
As that my skill should be so small, my sorowes should be such.
Yet all those Poets braue, which were, or yet shall bee,
Could I but vtter, as I feele, might all giue place to mee.
And thou whose mirth was least, whose comfort was dismaid;
Whose hope was vaine, whose faith was skorne, whose trueth was betraide:
Thou didst declare thy duile, in braue and daintie dye:
Thou wast vnhappie then, I graunt, but now vnhappie I.
As that my skill should be so small, my sorowes should be such.
Yet all those Poets braue, which were, or yet shall bee,
Could I but vtter, as I feele, might all giue place to mee.
And thou whose mirth was least, whose comfort was dismaid;
Whose hope was vaine, whose faith was skorne, whose trueth was betraide:
Thou didst declare thy duile, in braue and daintie dye:
Thou wast vnhappie then, I graunt, but now vnhappie I.
Thy Poemes did present vpon thy pleasant Page,
Moe Sorrowes than thou ever felt into thy cunning age.
With costlie Nurix rare, Sidoniane Wares divine,
Thou litst thy Lines, which makes thy Moanes miraculouslie to shine.
My Paines, like Tagus Sandes, no numbers can bewray:
Or like Auroras tears, which she for Memnon shee vs each day.
As Starres in frostie Sky can not bee tolde which shynes;
So manie heaps of harms my hart without compassion pyns.
Moe Sorrowes than thou ever felt into thy cunning age.
With costlie Nurix rare, Sidoniane Wares divine,
Thou litst thy Lines, which makes thy Moanes miraculouslie to shine.
My Paines, like Tagus Sandes, no numbers can bewray:
Or like Auroras tears, which she for Memnon shee vs each day.
As Starres in frostie Sky can not bee tolde which shynes;
So manie heaps of harms my hart without compassion pyns.
Yea, would I preasse to tell the torments that I feele,
With travell tint then might I turne Ixions fatall wheele.
And to disgorge these griefs which make mee sigh and sob,
Were for to weue a new Penelopeian webbe.
My Eyes like Fountaines might in bloodie Fornace frye,
Or like the Lidiane Tubs, whose doome is never to bee drye.
My hote and smoothred sighes, no levill course can take:
But restlesse round about my heart esphearicke motion make.
With travell tint then might I turne Ixions fatall wheele.
And to disgorge these griefs which make mee sigh and sob,
Were for to weue a new Penelopeian webbe.
My Eyes like Fountaines might in bloodie Fornace frye,
Or like the Lidiane Tubs, whose doome is never to bee drye.
My hote and smoothred sighes, no levill course can take:
But restlesse round about my heart esphearicke motion make.
My Thoughtes are now of Blisse like ruine Ilion bare:
My shape, a reconfused masse, which flowrisht once so faire.
My Ship, which sometimes saild in draiue of hope aright,
On Rockes fall colde is rent, in blacke and stormie night.
And I, forsaken Soule, a lyfelesse lumpe of Lead,
Twixt wind and waue am cast, whereas no strength can stand in stead.
My Uentring was my Wracke; my high Desire, my Fall:
Which made the Naufrage of my Hurt, my Hope, my Hap, and all.
My shape, a reconfused masse, which flowrisht once so faire.
On Rockes fall colde is rent, in blacke and stormie night.
And I, forsaken Soule, a lyfelesse lumpe of Lead,
Twixt wind and waue am cast, whereas no strength can stand in stead.
My Uentring was my Wracke; my high Desire, my Fall:
Which made the Naufrage of my Hurt, my Hope, my Hap, and all.
Alace, alace, that I impossiblie did preasse,
Aboue my Fortunes for to flie, so farre to my disgrace.
Disgrac'd with Losse, with Shame, with Wracke, and endlesse Wrong:
These are the dolefull Ditties now, and subjects of my Song.
Yet dare I not, alace, though I haue cause, complaine:
Which makes me sigh, and sob, and thus for loue am slaine.
But since it is my weird, to fall, to waile, to weepe;
Then by my losse let others learne a lower course to keepe.
Aboue my Fortunes for to flie, so farre to my disgrace.
Disgrac'd with Losse, with Shame, with Wracke, and endlesse Wrong:
These are the dolefull Ditties now, and subjects of my Song.
Yet dare I not, alace, though I haue cause, complaine:
Which makes me sigh, and sob, and thus for loue am slaine.
But since it is my weird, to fall, to waile, to weepe;
Then by my losse let others learne a lower course to keepe.
Thus endeth the Heremite his Complaint.
| The pilgrime and heremite | |