University of Virginia Library

If marueile ought (my louing wyfe) thy minde perhappes detayne?
Why others hand these letters wrote? my sickenesse caused playne.
In partes extreame of furthest lande, wyth feuer sore opprest,
Of wonted health I was almost wyth deadly doubt distrest.
What minde thinckes thou I had, when as, in Region rude I laye?
Betweene the Savvromes and the Getes, was forced here to straye?
The ayre thicke cold not be borne, nor waters vsed bee,
And land it selfe I know not how, to nature disagree.
No houses apt nor meate for such, whom sickenes doth agreue,
Nor none that could by Phisicks art, my deepe disease releue.
No frend that might my mind comfort, nor driue wyth wordes awaye,
The lingring time: to passe wyth speede, and greuous paynes alaye.
All tyred thus in furthest place, and landes my byding haue,
And eche thing clearely wantinge there, my longing mind do craue.
Yet though nothing my wish did want, (O wyfe thou art most deare,)
And of my brest thou dost possesse, and hold the place most neare.
To thee alone though absent farre, my voyce by name doth call,
No day but still of thee I heare, nor sound of ought at all.
And though oft times occasion moues, to speake of other things,
As mad my tongue thy name doth touch, and forth the same it brings.
Yea though I sounded were and tongue, to mouth were fixed sure,
And that no drop of pleasant wynes, cold eft the same recure,
Yet hearing that my mistres deare, to presence should be brought,
I rouse my selfe: for hope and cause, of strength thereby is wrought.
Whyle I in doubt of life remaine, thou passest pleasant dayes,
Unweeting cleare of sorrowes mine, percase thou none assayes.
Yet doest thou not I dare, affirme: (O thou my dearest wyfe,)
In sorrowes sad me absent far, thou leads thine only lyfe.
But when as fate my yeares fulfild, which it so ought of right,
And when as life my corps hath left, and death performd his spight,
What ioy should it be then (O Gods) to graunt to my desyre,
On natiue ground to end my dayes, and coorse therein entyre.
O would that eyther these my paynes, might yet haue had delaye,
Or els that hasting death had come, before I past my waye.
In health not long ago it might, my life haue tane from mee,
But now an exile here to dye, these pardons graunted bee.
So far away shall we be forct, to dye in lande vnknowen?
Or shal the place inforce my fate, with greater sorrowes growen?
Shal not my corps in wonted beds, consume wyth deadly wound?
Or shall there none my death bewayle, when layde I am on ground?
Shal not my mystres sorye teares, vppon my face let fall?
Nor shall the same wyth lyuing sence, my time prolong at all?
Shal not I make my due requestes? nor at the latest crye?
Wyth frendly hand shall she not shut, and close my passing eye?
But shal my head of funerals, bereft and noble graue?
And here in greedy groūd be put, and no lamentinge haue?
Wilt thou not hearing this of mee, wyth minde amazed stande?
And faythfull brest wyth waighty strokes, will strike wyth fearefull hande?
And hitherwards in vaine although, thy wofull armes stretch out?
And on thy wretched husbans name, to crye will nothing doubt?
Yet spare thy cheekes (mine owne sweete hart) and louely lookes to rend,
This time not first that I from thee, was forct away to bend.
When as my countrye deare I lost, thincke then I did away,
The first and greatest death I do, esteeme the same alway.
Now if thou can: which thou can not, (my best beloued wyfe,)
Reioyce my death the ende of woes, that so molested lyfe.
And would my soule wyth body might, consumed be in one,
So then no part from flashing flames, escaped be alone.
For if the sprite doth not depart, but flyes aloft in skyes,
And that Pythagoras auncient sawes, as false we not dispyse.
My Romayne soule shal wander then, euen wyth the Sythian gost,
And eke among the furious spyrits, shal byde alwayes at ost.
Yet cause that all my lifelesse boones, be put in one small pot,
So shal I not although now dead, an exile be, I wot.
For no man did forbid, that when, Thiocles whilom slaine,
Antigones should burye him, though kinge denyde it plaine.
And mixe my boones wyth pouder drye, of sweete Ammomus tree,
And in the subberbes of the towne, let them reposed bee.
And letters great in Marble graude, wyth seemely verse deuies,
Which on my Tombe the passers by, may well deserne with eyes.

EPITAPHE.

HERE Naso now beholde I lye, that wrote of tender loue,
A Poet learnd whose wits wer cause, that deth did him remoue.
And who so here a louer comes, saye thus, if paine be none,
God graunt that Nasoes bones abide, in quiet rest eche one.

On Tombe these shall suffice: but yet, my bookes shall longer byde,
As monuments of mee, which that, no trackt of time shall hyde.
And those which Author hurted haue, yet hope I through the same,
My time shall more prolonged be, with much encrease of fame.
Yet on my coorse the due desertes, of funerals bestowe,
And on the watrye garlandes see, thy bitter teares do flowe.
And though the fyre doth my coorse, to ashes pale conuart,
Yet shal the sorrye sparkes approue, thy godly louinge hart.
And now receiue this last farewell, perhaps that I shal make,
The which although to thee I sende, my selfe cannot pertake.