CANT. LXVIII.
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Auisa hauing heard this patheticall fancy of H.W. and seeing the teares trill downe his cheekes, as halfe angry to see such passionate follie, in a man that should haue gouerment, with a frowning countenance turned from him, without farder answere, making silence her best reply, and following the counsell of the wise, not to answere a foole in his folly lest he grow too foolish, returted quite from him, and left him alone. But he departing home, and not able by reason to rule the raginge fume of this phantasticall fury, cast himselfe vppon his
bed, & refusing both foode & comfort for many daies together, fell at length into such extremity of passionate affections, that as many as saw him, had great doubt of his health, but more of his wittes, yet, after a long space absence, hauing procured some respite from his sorrowes, he takes his pen & wrate, as followeth.
Lyke
wounded Deare, whose tēder sydes are bath'd in blood,
From deadly wound, by fatall hand & forked shaft:
So bleedes my pearced hart, for so you thinke it good,
With cruelty to kill, that which you got by craft:
You still did loth my lyfe, my death shall be your gaine,
To dye to do you good, I shall not thinke it paine.
My person could not please, my talke was out of frame,
Though hart and eye could neuer brooke my loathed sight,
Yet loue doth make me say, to keepe you out of blame,
The fault was only mine, and that you did but right,
When I am gon, I hope my ghost shall shew you plaine,
That I did truly loue, and that I did not faine.
Now must I fynd the way to waile while lyfe doth last,
Yet hope I soone to see, the end of dolefull dayes;
When floudes of flowing feares, and creeping cares are past,
Then shall I leaue to sing, and write these pleasant layes:
For now I loth the foode, and bloud that lendes me breath,
I count all pleasures paine that keepe me from my death.
To darke and heauy shades, I now will take my flight,
Where nether tongue nor eye shall tell or see my fall,
That there I may disiect these dregges of thy dispight,
And purge the clotted blood, that now my hart doth gall:
In secret silence so, Perforce shall be my song,
Till truth make you confesse that you haue done me wrong.
Gia speme spenta.
H. W.
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Auisa refusing both to come or send him any aunswere, after a long & melancholike deliberation, he wrate againe so as followeth.
