 | Poems (1872) |  |
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XII. VISION OF A FAIR MAID, WITH ECHO-VERSES.
Sittinge alone vpon my thoughte, in melancholy moode
In sighte of sea, and at my back an ancyente hoarye woode,
I sawe a faire young lady come, her secret feares to wayle,
Cladd all in coulor of a Nun and couerèd wth a vaylle:
Yet (for the day was callme and cleere) I myghte discerne hir face.
As one myghte see a damaske rose hid vnder christall glasse:
Three tymes with her softe hande full harde on her left syde she knocks
And syghèd so sore as myghte haue moude som pittye in the rockes:
From syghes, and shedinge amber teares, into sweete songe she brake
When thus the Echo answered her to euerye word she spake:
In sighte of sea, and at my back an ancyente hoarye woode,
I sawe a faire young lady come, her secret feares to wayle,
Cladd all in coulor of a Nun and couerèd wth a vaylle:
Yet (for the day was callme and cleere) I myghte discerne hir face.
As one myghte see a damaske rose hid vnder christall glasse:
Three tymes with her softe hande full harde on her left syde she knocks
And syghèd so sore as myghte haue moude som pittye in the rockes:
From syghes, and shedinge amber teares, into sweete songe she brake
When thus the Echo answered her to euerye word she spake:
An̄ Vanefors eccho.
O heauens, who was ye first that bredd in me this feauere? Vere.Whoe was the firste yt gaue ye wounde, whose fearre I ware for euere? Vere
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What wighte first caughte this harte, and can from bondage it delver? Vere.
Yet who doth most adore this wighte, oh hollowe caues tell true? you.
What nymphe deserus his lykinge best, yet dothe in sorrowe rue? you.
What makes him not rewarde good will wth some rewarde or ruthe? youth.
What makes him showe besydes his birrthe, suche pryde and such vntruth? youth.
May I his fauour matche wth loue; if he my loue will trye? I.
May I requite his birthe wth faythe? than faythfull will I dy? I.
And I that knew this ladye well, sayde
Lord how great a mirakle
To her how eccho toulde the truthe
As true as Pheobus orakle.
Lord how great a mirakle
To her how eccho toulde the truthe
As true as Pheobus orakle.
| Poems (1872) | |