The Works of William Fowler :: :: University of Virginia Library

O mournfull muse, Melpomene, bewaill!
o mournfull muse, lament hir loss & death
with trikling teares! thought they not muchte prevaill
In this behalf agane to vitall breath
hir to restore quhome atropos hes kild,
and cutt the threid quhilk did hir lyfe prolong,
ȝit lat your nots with sorrow fully fild
at hir disease resound this woefull song.

Alas! I see the tennor of my muse
by spytfull death is forst to chainge his tone,
and leave these noats quhilk he was wont to vse
to sound hir praise, as he suld allwayes done.
O cursed death! quhy haist thow made such wrak?
o cursed death! quhy haist thow me off Ioy
depryved clene, quhy haist thow maid such sak
off hir quhase want dois plundge me In anoy?

Culd not hir sight thy mortall straiks restrain[e]?
culd not hir face thy deidlie dairt resist?
culd not hir gifts compeld the to refraine
from wonding hir? quhairto sal I insist
to curss or crye on thy vntymlye wound,
quhilk hes not spaird the floure off all her kynde?
o heaven! o earth! how am I tort[urd] and[OMITTED]
with hellysh pains Insetled in my [mynde]!

241

O eyne of myne, myne eyne, poure furth ȝour teares!
gusch furth in floods to waill my wrethched state!
bedew my cheiks in quhome no Ioy appeirs,
sen all my mirth hes ȝeild without debait
to vapourd sights! and thow, o atropos,
vnfreind to hir, and to to freind to me,
my lyflye threid with speid in sunder loss,
dissolve this corpss quhilk languish after thee!

Disdaning death, quhy hes thow stop thyne eares?
wilt thow not list to heare my piteous plaint?
can thow prolong the lyfe conseumd with cair[s]?
gud death, draw neir, resolud with quhole In[tent]
to slay the man quha is resolud to die,
and frie the wight from his renewing smart,
quhase opned breist sic stoggs dois crave off [the]
as may it pearce to mortefie his hairt.

Bot, sluggish death, thow schaws thy self so slo[w]
to further me in this my bent desyre,
as I suld prease to latt the world know
quhat furious rage hes sett my thoughts in fyre.
gif feare of god had not represt my will,
[in]to my bluid my hands I suld Imbrew,
[to] [se]ik baith end of lyfe and pains which still
[in]c[re]isis [?] sore, and hourlye dois renew.

Bot as I may so sall I dryve my daye[s],
such crosss to me the heavens hes assingd;
and as my mynde such plags and pangs ass[ayes],
so sall my corpss be vnto these resingd.
thought thow, my deire, heirby sall rype not fruit,
thought thow, my deire, exspect not such of me,
ȝit sall our love rest fixed in this ruit,
and all wayes budd in memorie of the.

242

Petrarcha laure did never so lament,
nor pyramus his precious thisbe waill,
Guiscardus death maid not the hand relent
of sigismund so much as ȝours dois quaill
[my] restles mynd, my loveing dame, my deir,
your death, my deir, bereavis me of my rest;
your death, my love, hes alterd all my cheire;
your death, my love, my ioy hes dispossest.

It sall not then without lamenting passs
vpon thy grave these verse I will erect:
she, while she liud, off all beloued was,
she, quhyle she liud, quhome al men did respect;
ȝit after death refloorish sall hir fame
althought hir corpss interred be in clay;
and I with sobbs the echo off hir name
sal still resond til death my lyfe assay.