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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The lamentable louer abiding in the
bitter bale of direfull doubts towards
his Ladyes loyalty, writeth vnto her as followeth.
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 | A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions |  |
The lamentable louer abiding in the bitter bale of direfull doubts towards his Ladyes loyalty, writeth vnto her as followeth.
Health I thee send, if hee may giue, yt which himself doth misse:For thy sweet brest, doth harbor whole, my bloody bale or blisse,
I neede no scribe, to scry my care, in restlesse rigor spread:
They that behold, my chaunged cheare, already iudge mee dead.
My baned limmes, haue yeelded vp, their woonted ioy to dye:
My healthles hand, doth nought but wring, & dry my dropping eye,
The deadly day, in dole I passe, a thousand times I craue
The noysome night: agayne I wish, the dolefull day to haue.
Eche howre to mee, most hatefull is, eche place doth vrge my wo:
No foode mee feedes, close vp mine eyes, to gastly graue I go.
No Phisickes art, can giue the salue, to heale my paynfull part:
Saue only thou, the salue and sore, of this my captiue hart,
Thou art the branch yt sweetly springs, whose hart is sound & true
Can only cheare mee wofull wight, or force my want to rue.
Then giue to mee, the sap I thirste, which gift may giue mee ioy,
I mean thy firme, & faythful loue, whose want breeds mine annoy,
Remember yet sure freendship had, ypast betweene vs twayne
Forget him not, for loue of thee, who sighes in secret payne.
I oft doo seeme in company, a gladsome face to beare,
But God thou knowst my inward woes, & cares yt rent mee there:
And that I may, gush out my greefe, in secret place alone,
I bid my freends farewell in haste, I say I must be gone.
Then haste I fast, with heauy hart, in this my dolefull case:
Where walkes no wight, but I alone, in drowsie desart place,
And there I empt, my laden hart, that sweld in fretting mone:
My sighes and playnts, and panges I tell, vnto my selfe alone.
What shall I say? doo aske mee once, why all these sorowes bee?
I answere true, O foe or freend, they all are made for thee,
It lyes in thee, and wilt thou not, the yeelding wight release?
O would to God, it lay in mee, to cure such greefe of thine:
Thou shouldst not long, be voyd of helpe, if twere in power of mine,
But I would run, & range in stormes, a thousand miles in payne:
Not fearing foyle, of freends to haue, my coūtenance whole agayn
And wilt thou then, all mercylesse, more longer torment mee?
In drawing backe, sith my good helpe, is only whole in thee?
Then send mee close, ye hewing knife, my wider wound to stratch:
And thou shalt see, by wofull greefe, of life a cleane dispatch.
When thou shalt say, and prooue it true, my hart entirely lou'd,
Which lost the life, for countnance sweet frō whō hee neuer mou'd
Write then vpon my wofull Tombe, these verses grauen aboue,
Heere lyes the hart, his truth to trie, that lost his life in loue.
Loe, saue or spill, thou mayst mee now, thou sitst in iudgment hie,
Where I poore man, at Bar doo stand, and lowd, for life doo cry.
Thou wilt not bee, so mercylesse, to slea a louing hart:
Small prayse it is to conquer him, that durst no where to start,
Thou hast the sword, that cut the wound, of my vnholpen payne:
Thou canst and art, the only helpe, to heale the same agayne.
Then heale the hart, that loues thee well, vntill the day hee dye:
And firmely fast thy loue on him, thats true continually,
In thee my wealth, in thee my woe, in thee too saue or spill:
In thee mee lyfe, in thee my death, doth rest to worke thy will.
Let vertue myxt, with pitty great, and louing mercy saue
Him, who without thy salue, so sicke, that hee must yeeld to graue,
O salue thou then, my secret sore, sith health in thee dooth stay:
And graūt wt speed, my iust request, whose want works my decay
Then shal I blesse, the pleasāt place, where once I tooke thy gloue,
And thanke ye God, who giues thee grace, to graūt me loue for loue.
FINIS.
| A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions | |