 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
SORROW.
All the long weary day
When I my tune would play,
He maketh sad stops in my sweetest reed;
And when the daylight ceases
He breaketh up my sleep to little pieces,
And thereupon doth feed.
When I my tune would play,
He maketh sad stops in my sweetest reed;
And when the daylight ceases
He breaketh up my sleep to little pieces,
And thereupon doth feed.
Alway at my spare feast,
Ere yet the meat I taste,
He cometh, and beside my board doth sit,
And giveth me such looks
As though that he were drawing with sharp hooks
The marrow out of it.
Ere yet the meat I taste,
He cometh, and beside my board doth sit,
And giveth me such looks
As though that he were drawing with sharp hooks
The marrow out of it.
I may no longer use
Such colors as I choose—
Scarlet or lively green to be my gowns,
For still he letteth fall
His salt and bitter tears on one and all,
Fading my reds to browns.
Such colors as I choose—
Scarlet or lively green to be my gowns,
For still he letteth fall
His salt and bitter tears on one and all,
Fading my reds to browns.
202
Long whiles I stay apart
From my most sweet sweetheart,
Because of eyelids drooping in disgrace,
For whatsoe'er I say,
He maketh me to stammer such a way,
As shames me to his face.
From my most sweet sweetheart,
Because of eyelids drooping in disgrace,
For whatsoe'er I say,
He maketh me to stammer such a way,
As shames me to his face.
The littlest room of all
My house, is not so small,
But there he maketh space and doth abide;
O friends, for pity's sake,
Out of your love a secret chamber make,
And therein let me hide.
My house, is not so small,
But there he maketh space and doth abide;
O friends, for pity's sake,
Out of your love a secret chamber make,
And therein let me hide.
For all the weary day
When I my tune would play,
He maketh sad stops in my sweetest reed;
And when the daylight ceases
He breaketh up my sleep to little pieces,
And thereupon doth feed.
When I my tune would play,
He maketh sad stops in my sweetest reed;
And when the daylight ceases
He breaketh up my sleep to little pieces,
And thereupon doth feed.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |