The Complete Works of George Gascoigne In Two Volumes |
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A Lady being both wronged by false suspect, and also
wounded by the durance of hir husband, doth thus bewray hir grief. |
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 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
A Lady being both wronged by false suspect, and also wounded by the durance of hir husband, doth thus bewray hir grief.
Give me my Lute in bed now as I lie,
And lock the doores of mine unluckie bower:
So shall my voyce in mournefull verse discrie
The secrete smart which causeth me to lower:
Resound you walles an Eccho to my mone,
And thou cold bed wherein I lie alone,
Beare witnesse yet what rest thy Lady takes,
When other sleepe which may enjoy their makes.
And lock the doores of mine unluckie bower:
So shall my voyce in mournefull verse discrie
The secrete smart which causeth me to lower:
Resound you walles an Eccho to my mone,
And thou cold bed wherein I lie alone,
Beare witnesse yet what rest thy Lady takes,
When other sleepe which may enjoy their makes.
In prime of youth when Cupide kindled fire,
And warmd my will with flames of fervent love:
To further forth the fruite of my desire,
My freends devisde this meane for my behove.
They made a match according to my mind,
And cast a snare my fansie for to blind:
Short tale to make: the deede was almost donne,
Before I knew which way the worke begonne.
And warmd my will with flames of fervent love:
To further forth the fruite of my desire,
My freends devisde this meane for my behove.
They made a match according to my mind,
And cast a snare my fansie for to blind:
Short tale to make: the deede was almost donne,
Before I knew which way the worke begonne.
And with this lot I did my selfe content,
I lent a liking to my parents choyse:
With hand and hart I gave my free consent,
And hung in hope for ever to rejoyce.
I liv'd and lov'd long time in greater joy,
Than shee which held king Priams sonne of Troy:
But three lewd lots have chang'd my heaven to hell
And those be these, give eare and marke them well.
I lent a liking to my parents choyse:
With hand and hart I gave my free consent,
And hung in hope for ever to rejoyce.
I liv'd and lov'd long time in greater joy,
Than shee which held king Priams sonne of Troy:
But three lewd lots have chang'd my heaven to hell
And those be these, give eare and marke them well.
First slaunder he, which alwayes beareth hate,
To happy harts in heavenly state that bide:
Gan play his part to stirre up some debate,
Whereby suspect into my choyse might glide.
And by his meanes the slime of false suspect,
Did (as I feare) my dearest friend infect.
Thus by these twayn long was I plungd in paine,
Yet in good hope my hart did still remaine.
To happy harts in heavenly state that bide:
339
Whereby suspect into my choyse might glide.
And by his meanes the slime of false suspect,
Did (as I feare) my dearest friend infect.
Thus by these twayn long was I plungd in paine,
Yet in good hope my hart did still remaine.
But now (aye me) the greatest grief of all,
(Sound loud my Lute, and tell it out my toong)
The hardest hap that ever might befall,
The onely cause wherfore this song is soong,
Is this alas: my love, my Lord, my Roy,
My chosen pheare, my gemme, and all my joye,
Is kept perforce out of my dayly sight,
Whereby I lacke the stay of my delight.
(Sound loud my Lute, and tell it out my toong)
The hardest hap that ever might befall,
The onely cause wherfore this song is soong,
Is this alas: my love, my Lord, my Roy,
My chosen pheare, my gemme, and all my joye,
Is kept perforce out of my dayly sight,
Whereby I lacke the stay of my delight.
In loftie walles, in strong and stately towers,
(With troubled minde in solitary sorte,)
My lovely Lord doth spend his dayes and howers,
A weary life devoyde of all disport.
And I poore soule must lie here all alone,
To tyre my trueth, and wound my will with mone:
Such is my hap to shake my blooming time,
With winters blastes before it passe the prime.
(With troubled minde in solitary sorte,)
My lovely Lord doth spend his dayes and howers,
A weary life devoyde of all disport.
And I poore soule must lie here all alone,
To tyre my trueth, and wound my will with mone:
Such is my hap to shake my blooming time,
With winters blastes before it passe the prime.
Now have you heard the summe of all my grief,
Whereof to tell my hart (oh) rends in twayne:
Good Ladies yet lend you me some relief,
And beare a parte to ease me of my payne.
My sortes are such, that waying well my trueth,
They might provoke the craggy rocks to rueth,
And move these walles with teares for to lament,
The lothsome life wherein my youth is spent.
Whereof to tell my hart (oh) rends in twayne:
Good Ladies yet lend you me some relief,
And beare a parte to ease me of my payne.
My sortes are such, that waying well my trueth,
They might provoke the craggy rocks to rueth,
And move these walles with teares for to lament,
The lothsome life wherein my youth is spent.
But thou my Lute, be still, now take thy rest,
Repose thy bones uppon this bed of downe:
Thou hast dischargd some burden from my brest,
Wherefore take thou my place, here lie thee downe.
And let me walke to tyre my restlesse minde,
Untill I may entreate some curteous winde
To blow these wordes unto my noble make,
That he may see I sorow for his sake.
Repose thy bones uppon this bed of downe:
Thou hast dischargd some burden from my brest,
Wherefore take thou my place, here lie thee downe.
And let me walke to tyre my restlesse minde,
Untill I may entreate some curteous winde
To blow these wordes unto my noble make,
That he may see I sorow for his sake.
Meritum petere, grave.
| The Complete Works of George Gascoigne | |