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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DOM DIEGO HIS dolerous discourse.
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 | The Rocke of Regard |  |
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DOM DIEGO HIS dolerous discourse.
I (wretched)
weary am of toile, good death delay my paine:
By words in waft, my works are lost, my wishes are in vaine.
I serue with faith, my hire is fraud, I loue & reape but hate,
And yet this woe doth wrong me most, I mourne without a mate.
By words in waft, my works are lost, my wishes are in vaine.
I serue with faith, my hire is fraud, I loue & reape but hate,
And yet this woe doth wrong me most, I mourne without a mate.
For if one drop of hope were seene, though dride with scorne in sight,
I might with pyning Tantale ioyne, who sterues in sweete delight.
Or if I could but halfe the hill, roule vp the tumbling stone,
I had a mate of Sisyphus, to match with mee in mone.
I might with pyning Tantale ioyne, who sterues in sweete delight.
Or if I could but halfe the hill, roule vp the tumbling stone,
I had a mate of Sisyphus, to match with mee in mone.
But, oh, O not my hap more harde, they haue a scambling ioy,
But I no thought of sweete remorse, my souereigne is so coy.
My ioy in was, my woe in is, and so is like to bee.
My fancies turne, to firie sightes, aliue, my death to see.
But I no thought of sweete remorse, my souereigne is so coy.
My ioy in was, my woe in is, and so is like to bee.
My fancies turne, to firie sightes, aliue, my death to see.
The court, the court, where pleasure liues, with paine increast my care,
Eche blisse seemde bale, eche gleame of grace, did mist my ioyes wt scare.
Eche show of sport, my sorrowes moude, eche pleasure made mee plaine,
Yet there I preast, to feede on sight, digesting dire disdaine.
Eche blisse seemde bale, eche gleame of grace, did mist my ioyes wt scare.
Eche show of sport, my sorrowes moude, eche pleasure made mee plaine,
Yet there I preast, to feede on sight, digesting dire disdaine.
Were loue not blinde, this life were straunge, for one to loue his foe,
More straunge to haunt a place of harme, but most to ioy in woe.
But (Oh) who feeles, his aukeward fittes, and suckes ye sweete in soure,
Shall bide a yeare of dole with ease, to feele one lightning houre.
More straunge to haunt a place of harme, but most to ioy in woe.
But (Oh) who feeles, his aukeward fittes, and suckes ye sweete in soure,
Shall bide a yeare of dole with ease, to feele one lightning houre.
Such life I lykt, til fogge of scorne, did rise to dampe my ioyes,
Till secrete sighes, wrought open scoffes, till floutes did quite my ioye.
Untill the colours which I wore, my secrete mourning wrayde,
Till dauntes of friendes, till frumpes of foes, my feeble hope dismayde.
Till secrete sighes, wrought open scoffes, till floutes did quite my ioye.
Untill the colours which I wore, my secrete mourning wrayde,
Till dauntes of friendes, till frumpes of foes, my feeble hope dismayde.
And till her bloudie hate was seene, of euery beetell sight,
Till then I neuer shronke, but sought with zeale, to quenche her spight,
But then (quoth I) Dom Diego wretch, bid Court, not care adue,
Some vnkouth haunt, thy fortune seemes, thy harmes alone to rue.
Till then I neuer shronke, but sought with zeale, to quenche her spight,
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Some vnkouth haunt, thy fortune seemes, thy harmes alone to rue.
Thou gau'st thy woord, to die her loue, let word, in worke agree:
Her checking chaunge, her scorne for faith, is no excuse for thee.
A Hermits life, beseemes thy lucke, go haunt the Pyren hills.
To touch the foode, wee may not taste, increaseth hungry wills.
Her checking chaunge, her scorne for faith, is no excuse for thee.
A Hermits life, beseemes thy lucke, go haunt the Pyren hills.
To touch the foode, wee may not taste, increaseth hungry wills.
Therwith I vow'de, in defart houltes, alone to rue my harme,
Where fretting sighes, doth serue for fire, my frosen flesh to warme.
My foode, is aples, hawes, and heepes, such fruites as feede a beast,
Wilde monsters are companions mine, in hollow caues I rest.
Where fretting sighes, doth serue for fire, my frosen flesh to warme.
My foode, is aples, hawes, and heepes, such fruites as feede a beast,
Wilde monsters are companions mine, in hollow caues I rest.
A crabtree staffe my surest steede, my sterued legges to ease,
My thoughts new wounds, increaseth stil, whē cares I would appease.
The watchfull clocke, the warning bell, the harmonie I heare,
Is dreadfull noyes of dreadlesse beastes, of whom I liue in feare.
My thoughts new wounds, increaseth stil, whē cares I would appease.
The watchfull clocke, the warning bell, the harmonie I heare,
Is dreadfull noyes of dreadlesse beastes, of whom I liue in feare.
My studie is to way, and waile, that fortune thus doth lowre,
Wher wealth by wāt, once loue by scorne, my sweete by present sowre.
Where fethers flue, about my helme, a willowe wreath to weare,
My weedes of worth, by cote of leaues, sharpe flowes, for deintie fare.
Wher wealth by wāt, once loue by scorne, my sweete by present sowre.
Where fethers flue, about my helme, a willowe wreath to weare,
My weedes of worth, by cote of leaues, sharpe flowes, for deintie fare.
My stately home, by hard exile, delight, by wythred woe,
Doth force (god wott) my wasted teares, through griefe, a fresh to flow,
My lute that sometime lent mee ease, hath neither frett nor stringe,
My sugred voice, with howling hoarst, forbids mee now to singe.
Doth force (god wott) my wasted teares, through griefe, a fresh to flow,
My lute that sometime lent mee ease, hath neither frett nor stringe,
My sugred voice, with howling hoarst, forbids mee now to singe.
My penns are worne, my incke is done, my paper all is writ,
Yet halfe my passions and my paine, vnpainted are as yet,
So that for onely exercise, in trees and Marble stone,
My griefe to ease, I forced now, do graue my wretched mone.
Yet halfe my passions and my paine, vnpainted are as yet,
So that for onely exercise, in trees and Marble stone,
My griefe to ease, I forced now, do graue my wretched mone.
Liue longe in blisse thou loftie Beeche, wherein this vow is writt,
No luring friend, nor lowring soe, Geneuras faith shall flitt.
To witnes now, her foule vntruth, Dom Diego writes belowe,
Her vowed faith, from knowen friend, is rest by sawning foe.
No luring friend, nor lowring soe, Geneuras faith shall flitt.
To witnes now, her foule vntruth, Dom Diego writes belowe,
Her vowed faith, from knowen friend, is rest by sawning foe.
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But chiefe of all, thou sacred stone, remaine thou sound and safe,
Continue thou these letters fresh, which are my Epitaphe,
Hard by this rough, and ragged stone, Dom Diego (wretched lyes,
Geneuras hate exiled him, yet louing her hee dies.
Continue thou these letters fresh, which are my Epitaphe,
Hard by this rough, and ragged stone, Dom Diego (wretched lyes,
Geneuras hate exiled him, yet louing her hee dies.
This homely tumbe, is all my helpe, to bring my death to light,
This must record my faithfull loue, and show my Ladies spight,
In time I trust some forrest Pan, or wandring pilgrime may,
Peruse my woes, and to my sweete, this sowre message wray.
This must record my faithfull loue, and show my Ladies spight,
In time I trust some forrest Pan, or wandring pilgrime may,
Peruse my woes, and to my sweete, this sowre message wray.
To saue my faithfull boone vnbroke, to show my seruice iust,
My souereignes scorne, with face of faith, her treason cloakt with trust,
Me wretched Dom Diego forst, before my time to die,
My bones vnburied by this tumbe, makes proofe it is no lie.
My souereignes scorne, with face of faith, her treason cloakt with trust,
Me wretched Dom Diego forst, before my time to die,
My bones vnburied by this tumbe, makes proofe it is no lie.
And now good death, with speede diuorce, my soule from lothed life,
My ioyes are worne, my pleasures past, my peace, is channg'd to strife,
I see no meane of quiet rest, but onely death by thee,
The spare them death, whom pleasure haunters use thy force on me.
My ioyes are worne, my pleasures past, my peace, is channg'd to strife,
I see no meane of quiet rest, but onely death by thee,
The spare them death, whom pleasure haunters use thy force on me.
| The Rocke of Regard | |