The Rocke of Regard diuided into foure parts. The first, the Castle of delight: Wherein is reported, the wretched end of wanton and dissolute liuing. The second, the Garden of Vnthriftinesse: Wherein are many sweete flowers, (or rather fancies) of honest loue. The thirde, the Arbour of Vertue: Wherein slaunder is highly punished, and vertuous Ladies and Gentlewomen, worthily commended. The fourth, the Ortchard of Repentance: Wherein are discoursed, the miseries that followe dicing, the mischiefes of quareling, the fall of prodigalitie: and the souden ouerthrowe of foure notable cousners, with diuers other morall, natural, & tragical discourses: documents and admonitions being all the inuention, collection and translation of George Whetstons |
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[When Sommers force is past, and Winter sets in foote] |
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
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[When Sommers force is past, and Winter sets in foote]
When Sommers force is past, and Winter sets in foote,The hart and strength of hearbs and trees, is nourisht by the roote.
The frostes and froward blasts, doth nip the naked spray,
The Sommer liuerie of the bowes, with colde is worne away,
Yet liues such rootes in hope, that Phœbus glimering beames,
Will once dissolue syr Hiems force, his frostes and ysie streames,
And lend reliefe at length, when he their lacke should see.
With coates of leaues to cloth their armes, fit garments for a tree.
Euen so both hope and dread, doth wage continuall fight,
Deare dame, in me, whose Sommers ioy, you raisde with friendly sight,
But loue, vnlookt (God wot) to yoke my wanton yeares,
Straight vsde his force, and base desart, consumd my ioy with feares,
It raysed frostes of scorne, my fire to ouerthrowe,
This chaungd the Sommer of your sight, to Winter of my woe:
Yet fled my heart to hope, who faintly feedeth me,
Your pittie passeth poore estate, where faythfull loue you see,
He shewes by secrete signes, your vertues euery one,
And sayes your beautie breedes no pride, that brueth all my mone.
But maugre friendly hope, base hap with me doth striue,
Who weares my flesh, with withered feare, how so my hart doth thriue
Which is the very cause, why I these colours weare,
The ground of hope, bewrayes my heart, the gards my desperate feare:
But if with graunt of grace, my griefes you meane to quite,
Both hope and dread shall soone be chaungd, to colours of delight.
Roberto Rinaldo.
| The Rocke of Regard | |