 | Poems of Thomas, Lord Vaux |  |
V. NO PLEASURE WITHOUT SOME PAINE.
How can the tree but wast, and wither awaie,
That hath not sometyme comforte of the Sunne:
How can that flower but fade, and sone decaie,
That alwaies is with darcke clouds runne.
Is this a life, naye death you maie it call,
That feeles eche paine, and knoweth no ioye at all.
That hath not sometyme comforte of the Sunne:
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That alwaies is with darcke clouds runne.
Is this a life, naye death you maie it call,
That feeles eche paine, and knoweth no ioye at all.
What foodlesse beast can liue long in good plight?
Or is it life, where sences there be none:
Or what auaileth eyes without their light?
Or els a tongue to hym that is alone?
Is this a life? naye death you maie it call,
That feeles eche paine, and knowes no ioy at all.
Or is it life, where sences there be none:
Or what auaileth eyes without their light?
Or els a tongue to hym that is alone?
Is this a life? naye death you maie it call,
That feeles eche paine, and knowes no ioy at all.
Whereto serue eares, if that there be no sound,
Or such a head, where no deuise doeth growe:
But all of plaints, since sorrowe is the grounde,
Whereby the hearte doeth pine in deadlie woe.
Is this a life, naye death you maie it call,
That feles eche paine, and knowes no ioy at al.
Or such a head, where no deuise doeth growe:
But all of plaints, since sorrowe is the grounde,
Whereby the hearte doeth pine in deadlie woe.
Is this a life, naye death you maie it call,
That feles eche paine, and knowes no ioy at al.
| Poems of Thomas, Lord Vaux | |