H. His Deuises for his owne exercise, and his Friends pleasure [by Thomas Howell] |
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Sorrowe disclosed, somewhat eased.
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 | H. His Deuises |  |
Sorrowe disclosed, somewhat eased.
Sithe kindled coales close kept, continue longest quick,And secret smarte with greater power, the pensiue minde doth prick.
Why should I cloke the griefe, from whence such passions grow,
Unlesse my braine by Pen I purge, my brest they ouerflow.
When night with quyet pause, eche creature cals to rest,
Through quelling cares & pinching thoughts, I lye so sore oprest,
That from my setling downe, vntill the tyme I rise,
Sleepe hardly wins the force to close, my watchful drooping eies.
The Skrich Owle me besides, her dolefull tunes doth shreeke,
Whose cryes my cares may represent, that rest in vaine do seeke.
To thinke on the mishaps, which daylie me betyde,
When surest hope of sweete redresse, I see away doth slyde.
The hardest harte by proofe, doth yeelde an inwarde pante,
When good desyres are deprest, by wrack of Irus wante.
Wante makes best natures fall, that else would vpright stand:
Want makes the valiant faynt in feares, though strong be harte & hand.
Want drowns in dollor deepe, the pleasants wits ye bee,
Want daunts the finste conceited head, and makes it dull we see.
Wante makes the olde wyfe trot, the yong to run outright,
Wante makes the noblest hart & mind, to seeme but base in sight.
Wante makes the Lyon stowte, a slender pray to leeke,
Want plucks the Pecocks plume adown, want makes ye mighty meeke
Want is the sowrce whence sorrows spring, yt hasts ye lifes decay,
Want loads the hart with heaped cares, that crush al ioys away.
Neede hath no lawe some say, extremes, extremes doe vrge,
The passions that by want do pain, what phisick wel may purge?
Unhappy is the hower, that such sharp sicknesse brings,
And thrise vnhappy is the wretch, whom want so deadly stings.
Aye me that such sowre sawce, false Fortune should procure,
When slylie forth she seemes to throw, her traine on golden lure.
By sleight whereof she doth, a piersing poyson place,
Ful closely coucht on pleasant bayte, to worke our more disgrase.
That secretly I sup the smarte, that my good dayes defaste.
The time that I began to enter fyrst to lyfe,
Would God the sisters three had cut, the threed with fatall knyfe.
Would God that Death had bene, with bowe and arrows bente,
To pierce the woful hart of mine, which now with care is spent.
Whose hard and crooked fate, increasing euery hower,
Doth force me wake when others sleepe, where Fortune doth not lower.
And when the dawning daye, I doe perceyue and see,
And how syr Tytan vaunts himselfe, full braue in fyrst degree,
Whose gladsome golden beames, doe moue eche thing to ioye,
Saue onely me, whose wrackfull woes, haue wrought my sadde annoy.
Then from my couch I creepe, al clad with cloke of care,
And forth to walke in desarte woodes, my selfe I doe prepare.
Where none but wofull wights, do wandring waile their griefe
Where violence doth vengeance take, where neuer comes relief.
Where pleasure playes no parte, nor wanton lyfe is ledde,
Where daintie lookes no danger makes, nor nice desyre is fedde.
Where former ioyes doe vade, and turne to passions strange,
Where al delights condemde are shut, in sharp repentāce grange
Where sorrowe sits, with head hangde on her brest,
And wrings her hands for follies past, her present paines yt prest.
Where Dolor ruthfull Dame, with sad Dispaire doth dwell,
Where Furies fierce doe swarme & flock, not distant farre from Hell.
Euen there in dolefull Den, driue forth I doe the day,
Whereas my painefull piercing woes, at no time finde delay.
Within whose troubled head, such throng of thoughts do rise,
That nowe on this, and then on that, in minde I still deuise.
Among great thoughts throwne vp, I downe will set the least,
How syllie birde in prison pente, tane from the Nurse in neast.
Doth ioye in that her lyfe, so much as though she might,
From wood to wood, or fielde to fielde, at pleasure take her flight.
By whome I learne how man, from Cradle aye brought vp,
In base estate that neuer felt the taste of pleasures Cup,
Doth holde himselfe so well, content with his degree,
That he in lyfe doth seldome seeke, his state more high to see.
Through gallant groues & fertyle fields, in ioys & sweete delight.
Which shall no sooner feele her selfe to be restraynde,
From her such wonted libertie as sometime she retaynde,
But forthwithall she doth, such inwarde woe conceyue,
That yeelding vp her pleasures past, her life therwith doth leaue.
When as the byrde in Cage, doth sporting sing and playe,
Who neuer found the place wherein, she felt more happy daye.
Loe thus the greater oft, are taught by things but small,
To knowe what restlesse griefe it breedes, from fortunes grace to fall.
I therfore wishe my lyfe, which all to long doth laste,
In symplest sort had euer bene, from tyme to tyme ypaste.
So I by custome should, haue likt my present paye,
Which now by tast of wrackfull change, in woe do wast awaye.
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