A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions Garnished and decked with diuers dayntie deuises, right delicate and delightfull, to recreate eche modest minde withall. First framed and fashioned in sundrie formes, by diuers worthy workemen of late dayes: and now, ioyned together and builded up: By T. P. [i.e. Thomas Procter] |
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A Letter written by a yonge gentilwoman and sent to her
husband vnawares (by a freend of hers) into Italy.
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 | A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions |  |
A Letter written by a yonge gentilwoman and sent to her husband vnawares (by a freend of hers) into Italy.
Imagine when these blurred lines, thus scribled out of frame,Shall come before thy careles eyes, for thee to read the same:
To bee through no default of pen, or els through prowd disdayne,
But only through surpassing greefe, which did the Author payne
Whose quiuring hand could haue no stay, this carful bil to write
Through flushing teares distilling fast, whilst shee did it indite:
Which teares perhaps may haue some force (if thou no tigre bee,
And mollifie thy stony hart, to haue remorse on mee.
Ah periurde wight reclaime thy selfe, and saue thy louing mate,
Whom thou hast left beclogged now, in most vnhappy state:
(Ay mee poore wench) what luckles star? what frowning god aboue
What hellish hag? what furious fate hath changd our former loue?
Are wee debard our wonted ioyes? shall wee no more embrace?
Wilt thou my deare in country strang, ensue Eneas race:
Italians send my louer home, hee is no Germayne borne,
Unles ye welcome him because hee leaues mee thus forlorne.
As earst ye did Anchises sonne, the founder of your soyle,
Who falsely fled from Carthage Queene, releeuer of his toyle:
Oh send him to Bryttannia Coastes, vnto his trusty feere,
That shee may vew his cumly corps, whom shee estemes so deere:
Where wee may once againe renue, our late surpassed dayes,
Which then were spent with kisses sweet, & other wanton playes:
But all in vayne (forgiue thy thrall, if shee do iudge awrong)
Thou canst not want of dainty Trulles Italian Dames among.
This only now I speake by gesse, but if it happen true,
Suppose that thou hast seene the sword, that mee thy Louer flue:
Perchance through time so merrily with dallying damsels spent,
Thou standst in doubt & wilte enquire frō whom these lines were sent:
If so, remember first of all, if thou hast any spowse,
Remember when, to whom and why, thou earst hast plited vowes,
Remember who esteemes thee best, and who bewayles thy flight,
Minde her to whom for loyalty thou falshood doost requight.
Reuoke to minde whom thou hast left, in shamefull blame & hate:
Yea minde her well who did submit, into thine onely powre,
Both hart and life, and therwithall, a ritch and wealthy dowre:
And last of all which greeues mee most, that I was so begylde,
Remember most forgetfull man, thy pretty tatling childe:
The least of these surnamed things, I hope may well suffice,
To shew to thee wretched Dame, that did this bill deuise.
I speake in vayne, thou hast thy will, and now sayth Aesons sonne,
Medea may packe vp her pypes, the golden Fleese is wonne:
If so, be sure Medea I will, shew forth my selfe in deede,
Yet gods defend though death I taste, I should distroy thy seede:
Agayne, if that I should enquire, wherfore thou doost soiurne,
No answere fitly mayst thou make, I know to serue thy turne:
Thou canst not say but that I haue, obseru'd my loue to thee,
Thou canst not say, but that I haue, of life vnchast bin free.
Thou canst not cloak (through want) thy flight, since riches did abound
Thou needes not shame of mee thy spouse, whose byrth not low is found,
As for my beauty, thou thy self, earwhile didst it commend
And to conclude I know no thing, wherin I dyd offend:
Retier with speed, I long to see, thy barke in wished bay,
The Seas are calmer to returne, then earst to fly away.
Beholde the gentill windes doo serue, so that a frendly gayle,
Would soone conuay to happy Porte, thy most desired sayle:
Return would make amends for all, and bannish former wronge,
Oh that I had for to entice, a Scyrens flattering songe.
But out alas, I haue no shift, or cunning to entreat,
It may suffise for absence thine, that I my grieefes repeate
Demaund not how I did disgest, at first thy sodayne flight,
For ten dayes space I tooke no rest, by day nor yet by night:
But like to Baccus beldame Nonne, I sent and rangde apace,
To see if that I mought thee finde, in some frequented place:
Now here, now there, now vp, now down, my fancy so was fed,
Untill at length I knew of troth, that thou from mee wert fled.
Then was I fully bent with blade, to stab my vexed harte,
Yet hope that thou wouldst come agayn, my purpose did conuart:
My smeared face through endles teares, vnpleasant doth appeare:
My slepes vnsound with vgly dreams, my meats are vayn of taste
My gorgious rayment is dispisde, my tresses rudly plaste.
And to bee breefe: I bouldly speake, there doth remayne no care:
But that therof in amplest wise, I doo possesse a share:
Lyke as the tender sprig doth bend, with euery blast of winde,
Or as the guidelesse Ship on Seas, no certaine Porte may finde.
So I now subiecte vnto hope, now thrall to carefull dread,
Amids the Rocks, tween hope and feare, as fancy mooues, am led:
Alas returne, my deare returne, returne and take thy rest,
God graunt my wordes may haue the force, to penytrat thy brest.
What doost thou thinke in Italy, some great exployt to win?
No, no, it is not Italy, as sometimes it hath bin:
Or doost thou loue to gad abroad, the forrain costes to vew,
If so, thou hadst not doone amisse, to bid mee first a dew:
But what hath bin the cause, I neede not descant longe,
For sure I am, meane while poore wench, I only suffer wrong.
Wel thus I leaue, yet more could say: but least thou shouldst refuse,
Through tediousnesse to reede my lines, the rest I will excuse:
Untill such time as mighty Ioue doth send such luckye grace,
As wee therof in freendly wise, may reason face to face.
Till then farwell, and hee thee keepe, who only knowes my smart
And with this bill I send to thee, a trusty Louers harte.
By mee, to thee, not mine, but thine,
Since Loue doth moue the same,
Thy mate, though late, doth wright, her plight,
Thou well, canst tell, her name.
Since Loue doth moue the same,
Thy mate, though late, doth wright, her plight,
Thou well, canst tell, her name.
| A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions | |