Epitaphes, Epigrams, Songs and Sonets with a Discourse of the Friendly affections of Tymetes to Pyndara his Ladie. Newly corrected with additions, and set out by George Turbervile |
To his Loue long absent, declaring his torments.
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Epitaphes, Epigrams, Songs and Sonets | ||
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To his Loue long absent, declaring his torments.
O lingring Loue, O Friendethat absent art so long,
Where so thou be, the Gods thee guide
and quit thy Corse from wrong:
And sende thee harmelesse health,
and safely to reuart,
How soone your selfe may deeme full well
to saue a dying hart.
For since your parture I
haue lead a lothsome state:
And saue the hope of your returne
nought might my woes abate.
And will you know the time
how I haue spent away?
And doe you long in ruthfull rime
my torments to suruay?
Though but with weeping eies
I may the same recite:
Yet naythelesse the truth herein
to thee (my Friend) I write.
When flickring Fame at first
vnto mine eares had brought
That you to trauell were addrest,
and fixed was your thought
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and flee our friendly soile:
Then Dolour first in daunted Corps
and wounded breast did boile.
I felt how griefe did gi[illeg.]
the onset on my hart,
And sorrow sware that pensiue pangues
should neuer thence depart.
With clinching clawes there came,
and talents sharply set,
A flock of greedie griping woes
my grunting hart to fret.
The more I sought the meane
by pleasaunt thought to ease
My growing griefe, the more I felt
increase my new disease.
When other laught for ioy,
it brought to minde my woe:
When Musick slakte their sorrowes, then
my secret sore did growe.
When they at meate were set
their daintie foode to taste,
In stead of Viands, hartie sighes
I had for my repaste.
When Bacchus came to Boorde,
and eche to other drincks:
My swolen floud of salted teares
did ouerflow his brincks,
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of drinke to stande in steede
To me, that of such monstrous meate
as sorrow was did feede.
From boorde to bed I goe,
in hope to finde reliefe,
And by some pleasaunt nap to rid
my troubled Ghost from griefe:
But slumbring sleepe is fled.
and Morpheus shewes his spight:
That will not yeelde on minuts reast
in all a Winters night.
O Lorde, what sundrie kindes
of care doe then begin
Tassault my wearie waking head,
and trembling hart within?
A thousande thoughts arise,
eche thought his torment brings:
And thus the lothed night I spend
and feele how sorrow springs.
And if in dawning chaunce
some drouping sleepe to light
Upon the carefull Corse that thus
hath spent the waking night:
It standes in little steade,
so dreadfull are my dreames
As they by force of wo procure
mine eies to runne with streames.
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and cloy my Couch with teares:
And mid my sleepe thy griesly Ghost
in straungie sort appeares.
Not with such friendly face
and brow of gladsome cheare
As earst thou hadst: those louely lookes
and blincks are all areare.
More grimmer is your grace,
more coye your countnance eake:
More lowring lookes than were of yore
and Brow more bent to wreake.
In hande mee thinkes I see
thee holde the hatefull knife
To slea thy Friend, and for good will
to reaue deserued lyfe.
Wherewith I wake afright
and straine my pillow fast,
To garde me from the cruell toole
vntill your wrath be past.
At length I see it plaine
that fansie did enforce
Unto his vgly monstrous dreame
my weake and slumbring Corse.
I vewe thy secret hart,
and how it longs to bee
With him that for vnfayned loue
impawnde his faith to thee.
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of you that iudge so yll,
Whose pleasure is to garde your Friend,
and not your Foe to kyll.
Of dreames a thousand such
eche night I haue a share,
To bannish sleepe from pining Corse
and nurse my canckred care.
Thus day and night I liue,
thus night and day I die:
In death I feele no smart at all,
in life great wo I trie.
Wherefore to rid my griefes
and bannish all annoie:
Retire from Creece, and doe soiourne
here with thy Friend in Troie.
Who longs to see thy face
and witnesse of thy state:
And partner be of thy delights
Ahis furious fits to bate.
Epitaphes, Epigrams, Songs and Sonets | ||