Tragicall Tales translated by Tvrbervile In time of his troubles out of sundrie Italians, with the Argument and Lenuoye to eche Tale |
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Yet ere I die, receiue this Swan-like song,
To ease my hart, and shew thine open wrong.
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 | Tragicall Tales translated by Tvrbervile |  |
Yet ere I die, receiue this Swan-like song,
To ease my hart, and shew thine open wrong.
O wauering
womans will,
that bends so soone about:
Why doest thou so reuolt in hast,
and shutst thy friend without.
Against the law of loue,
O thrise vnhappy hee:
That doth beleeue thy beauties beames,
and lookes of gallant glee.
For neither thraldom long,
that I poore wight abode:
Nor great good will by sundry signs,
and outward gesture shewed.
Had force to hold thy hart,
and keep thee at a stay:
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that would of force away.
Yet of this cruel lotte,
and fel mischance, I finde
Nor know no cause, but that thou art
sprong out of womans kind.
I iudge that Nature, and
the Gods that gouerne all
Deuisde this wicked shameles secte
to plague the earth withall.
A mischiefe for vs men,
a burden bad to beare:
Without whose match too happy we,
and too too blessed were.
Euen as the Beares are bread,
the Serpent and the Snake.
The barking Wolfe, the filthy flie
that noysome flesh doth make.
The stinking weede to smell
that growes among the graine:
Euen so I thinke the Gods haue made
your race vs men to paine.
Why did not kinde foresee
and nature so deuise
That man of man without the help,
of woman mought arise?
As by the art of hande
of apples apples spring:
[181]
another peare doeth bring.
But if you marke it wel,
the cause is quickly seene:
It is for that thou Nature art
a woman though a Queene.
O dames I would not wish
you peacocklike to looke
Or puft with pride to vaunt that man
of you his being tooke.
For on the bryar oft
a gallant Rose doth grow
And of a stincking weede an herbe
or floure fresh to shew.
Ye are excessiue proude,
stuft vp with stately spite:
Uoyd of good loue, of loyall trueth
and all good counsel quite.
Rash, cruel causlesse, curst,
vnkinde without desert
Borne onely for the scourge of him
that beares a faithful hart.
I rather wish to die,
then liue a vassaile stil
Or thrall my selfe vnto a dame
that yeldes me no good wil:
The wormes shal sooner feede
vpon my happy hart:
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of you wil suffer smart.
Adue deere dames,
the gastly ghostes of hel
Shal plague your bones
that gloze and loue not wel.
| Tragicall Tales translated by Tvrbervile | |