University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF DOUBTFUL AUTHENTICITY

I. ODE.

II. PASTORELL.

III. EPIGRAME.

IV. ELIGYE.

V. EPIGRAME.

I sicknes took me late agoe
That greveth me at euery Ioynt;
No part of me is voyde of woe,
But yet my harte is worst in poynt.
I asked at a skilfull man
If he could tell my greife aboue:
He said: “my frind for soothe I can;
Thou arte with chylde of feruent loue;
And since thou haste no better chance,
God send the good deliuerance.”

VI. EPIGRAME.

If Argus eys, Briarius handes, or Stentors voyce I had,
To looke at lardge, To write at will, to showte lyke fyfttye madd,
my sight would faile, my fist would tyre, my voyce wax dull & horce,
Ere I could spye, or yet could pen, or sound your bewtyes force.

VII. [My dolefull harte, the tombe of deadly care.]

VIII. EPIGRAME.

If that the Marques of Saluce
Were liuinge in these dayes
With Grisild, who for pacience once
Did winn so great a prayse,
This Marquess might a meter match
Conforme to his degree,
A grauer Grisild get then his,
More pacient by suche three.
No storme of Fortune may hir sturr,
Nor worldly chaunce hir scarr:
Yet say I not a man should prove
A woman ouer farr.

IX. ELIGYE.

X. [If tyme might cause me tyre.]

XI. [Thoughe tyme & absence worketh wonders strange.]

XII. BALLAD.

XIII. SONET.

Against the streame to stryve it is but vayne,
More follye were to fight against the fyre,
And what winns he in loue that takes no payne?
God wote he hathe but hevye hap for hyre.
Eche thing hathe tyme, then saith my hartes desyre;
My hart not myne, my harte is from me gone
Vnto that hart first set my harte on fyre;
Regardlesse nowe of all my plaintes & mone,
None nowe companions me but cares alone;
Suche is the guerdon loue his seruantes sendes.
Ahe faithe, good hope, take courage, man, anone,
Yet Fortune may for all this make amendes:
As first hir bewtye tooke from the thy harte,
May not hir bowntye heale againe thy smarte?

XIV. SONETT.

Cast of thy dole, thou dreyrye, dolent wight,
It semes the noght suche weides of woe to weare;
Let widdows olde in murninge blacke them dight
By outwarde robes to shewe ther inwarde cheare;
Lyke to thy self now lett thy self appeare;
Thou canst not let the Soone to shyne out right,
No more thy weides can darke thy bewtye cleare,
But euery wher of force it must giue light;
Showe nowe thy vertues lyke thy bewty bright;
Showe nowe thy pacience buried in thy breist;
Let vs not mourne to lacke thy lonesome sight
Vppon whose lookes so manye lookes do reste;
Hoyse vpp our hartes, and cast from the thy geare;
Tis age murnes aye & not younge ladyes fayre.

XV. ELEGYE.

XVI. SONETT.

Lyke as the heavens with dowries hathe you dect
Aboue the com̄on course of humaine race,
As nature hath you clad in eche respect
With bewtye, bounty, witt, & comly grace,
As all the Gods ther vertues in you place,
What heaven what earth or man may you devyse,
As loue himself is painted in your face
To hurt & heale with Archers of your eyes,
As chastety close hidden in you lyes,
As al your graces euerye man dothe muse,
As you to serue eche one ther spreit applyes,
So wish I you (A trustie ane) to chuse:
And, mistris myne, if ye my truthe will trye,
Ye shall not fynde a trustier then I.

XVII. SONETT.

O, in my rage I saide, once as me thoght,
O loue, o hope, o danger & dispaire,
Curst be the tyme that I to loue was broght!
for ere that tyme I knew no kynde of care.
but when againe I se hir bewtyes rare
for whom so longe I languisht haue in pyne,
hir rosy lipps, hir heavenly glistring hair,
hir twincklinge starrs, that, Cupid, once was thyne,
hir comly grace & vertues most devyne,
As, lo, she is a mirrour of hir age,
So yeild I hir this constant hart of myne,
Thoug[h]e otherwyse I said, lo, in my rage:
My hart to you my hart I wholly giue;
Yours would I haue or ells to longe I liue.

XVIII. ELEGYE.

Scarce Phœbe of the flowers had drawne
The mantle blacke of night,
Scarce had the morninge opened yett
hir husbandes windows bright,
Nor Pandions daughters plaintes lent place
For Venus clarkes to singe;
On buddes & flowers Auroraes teares
As yet lyke perles did hinge;
And still the sillver streames did slyde
On christall gravell sweit,
The topps of tremblinge trees & herbs
In balmye dews did fleit,
The warblinge tunes of birdes about
In broken ayre reboundes,
And echo throughe the woodes & rockes
Ther latter notes resoundes;
The soyle was sweit, & pleasant was
The sweit & pleasant ayre,
The season pleasant, & the daye
moste pleasant cleare & fayre,
When I to doe myne observance
To maye, as is my guyse,
was ranged forth with hauke on hande
To see Apollo ryse.
And even as Eous in the east
kept vp his crimson crowne,
And Phebus on the occean old
Spred out his golden gowne,
Another sonne I sawe whose beams
So peirst me in eche part,
That with the sight I thoght my self
depryved of a hart.
For pluckinge vp the blossoms of
The beames of hir regardes,
I felt that loue al soddaine tooke
Me captyve in his wardes.
That she some goddesse was I demed,
Or nimph of heavenly race,
With Venus bewtyes, Iunoes welth,
And with dame Pallas grace.
Devynlye was inspyrd me thought—
Aurora pale & colde
Did blushinge hyde hir head so rare
A bewtye to beholde.

XIX. 4 SONET. HARUEST.

Then, Madam, if this longe desyred springe
may once haue holde within your tender hart,
What Ioy shall suche automney to vs bringe,
when bothe shall reape the frute of loues desert?
howe soone then shall these stubborne stormes depart
That misted hath the mourninge of myne eyes?
howe soone may ye, sweit sommer, slake the smart
That cold dispaire lyke winter made to freise?
Allas, howe longe with tyme our tyme we leise!
The springe dothe passe, the sommer dothe expyre,
Autumnye reapes, with winter all thinge dyese:
yet for my part no guerdon I requyre,
Saue with your will I wist to reape the rose,
For which I haue sustaind so manye woes.

XX. SONGE.

XXI. SONET.

Once wandringe forthe in Maye to take the ayre,
A court of gallant courtiers came me by;
With them A troupe of Ladyes sawe I ther,
Whose lyvely lookes did seme to scorne the skye.
Before these dames A nimphe I did espye,
Lyke Iuno dect, adorned with Pallas grace;
Not Paris chose, nor Phœbe chaste, thincke I,
Might matche that peirles pearle in anye case.
And as she walkt with graue & comly pace,
I askt hir name of one came last of all.
“hir name,” quod he, “a nimphe of heavenly race.”
“Thatis trew,” said I, “but what shall I hir call?”
Quod he, “if thou so curious be to knawe,
hir name beginis & endeth with an̄ A.”

XXII. SONET VPPON HOPE HELPS HEVYE HARTES.

Hope helps eche hevye harte saue myne alone;
My hope, allas, hathe drownd me in dispaire.
What help haue I? I can but sighe & mone,
And breathe my heavye hartes desyres in ayre;
My tongue cannot my hevye hart declare.
But yett they saye hope helps his frindes at neid,
And courage comfortes hartes besett with care;
We see them want that will not see them bleid.
So, hevye harte, expell from the thy dreid,
For hope shall helpe thy hevye hartes desyre;
They neuer wan̄ that neuer hopt to speid;
Who leavs good hope, good hope of him will tyre:
For when our myndes are thrust with thousand dartes,
Then, then it is, that hope helps hevy hartes.

XXIII. ENIGME.

XXIV. ELIGYE.

XXV. HIMPNE.

XXVI. HIS LADIES DREAME.

XXVII. ELEGYE.

XXVIII. [O well of witt, Of vertues head & springe.]

O well of witt, Of vertues head & springe,
With pardon be it spoke, of others moe,
Moste perfitt, faire, & good in euerye thinge,
If euer yett ther was a woman soe.

XXIX. ELEGYE.

XXX. THE LASTE EPISTLE OF CRESEYD TO TROYALUS.

Healthe, healthe to worthy troylus dothe
His sometyme Cresyed send,
If so she may whose lothed lyfe
and lynes at ones must end.
My wish vnseene was but to see
The ones before my deathe,
Which sight vnawares yet longe desyred
Dothe stopp my vitall breathe:
For destinies hathe me well assured
My rewfull race is ronne,
And Atropos with sythe in hande
Is redye to vndone
The fatall threid that Lashesses
and Clotho once did Twyne,
And hightes to haste my welcome deathe
And longe desyred fyne.
The cruell goddes to Creaseyda
Vnfrindlye foes have beyne,
That would to god some sauage beaste
had me devoured cleane.
When I of Troye was calld a chylde,
And Phrigia soyle I sawe,
Would [that] the earthe my little lymms
Into hir wombe had drawe.
Then should no poet haue the cause
Faire Creyseydes treuthe to blame,
nor after this with ladyes falce
Remember Creseydes name;
Ne yet no mann his fickle dame
With Creseyd should vpbraid,
Nor by examples bringe me in
Howe Troyolus was betrayde.
But would to god that Hecuba
Had Priamus will fulfilld,
And Paris as the Prophetts had
Vnlucky ladd had killd;
Or ells that he with Oenon yet
Had taried still in Ide,
And lyke a Sheperd fed his flocke
by old Flamanders syde,
And not for Priams sonne beyne know,
nor Hectors brother namde.
But O! the fates, the froward fates,
hath thus his fortune framde
That he the Swellinge seas should sayle,
And Menelaus wyfe
By rape should bringe, & breid tweene Greekes
And Troians mortall stryfe;
Which in thend, as godes forbidd,
Should tourne in flashye flame
The princely pallace, Illion braue,
Of moste renowme & fame.
O! rather wish I that the songe
Of sousinge seas had drencht
The leiches twayne, & all the fyre
Of loue by water quencht.
Then should no greater Eageon sandes
With shearing shipp haue sought,
Mo thousande barged to thy shore,
O Troya towne, haue brought;
Then should my father Calcas not
His natyve soyle haue fledd,
When he to Tenidos was sent
To seeke Appolloes neid;
And then my haples husband had
Not stand in deadly feilde,
In sight amongst the furious Greekes
All armed vnder sheilde;
Then should myne honour haue beyne kept,
Myne honestye vnfoulde.
But Troyalus thou didst that defend
As well as thester colde:
For thou most trewe, most pacient was,
Moste secret to thy loue,
That euer ladye had ere this
Or after this may proove;
For .3. yeares space no lyffe but one,
One loue that did espye.
But why doe I thus wish & woulde?
I waste but tyme therby;
All thinges that womans prayse should bringe
In me is quyte defyled,
That ought a worthy ladye haue
A Grekisk kinge hathe spoylde;
That shrouded is the shyninge light
As night dothe blisfull daye.
So curse I may the hatefull hower,
Yea, well it curse I maye,
That Anthono by chance of warr
And force of greekes was take,
For whom they me & Thoas sende
A full exchange to make.
Was ther no other pledge, allas!
Or was it me they seike?
Why might not for a Troiayne duke
Suffise a kinge, a Greik?
Nay, mans provision was it not:
It was the deadlye doome
The fates ay from my birthe did threat
Vppon my head should come.
Than out on all these dreyry dames
That destenyes dothe dispyse!
And out on Fortune, fy on hope,
The weauer of my woes!
And now you angry nimphes whose plagues
I feile vppon me ryffe,
Your hate from hence can harme me nought,
Except ye lengthe me lyfe.
But, O my Troylus, if I darr
Vsurpe this phrase aright,
Howe could thy knightly harte consent,
Or eyes abyde the sight,
To see me vnder Diomedes guarde
From Troy to Greikes so stray?
Why slewest thou not thy mortall foe,
And fled with me awaye?
No, thou extemed myne honour soe
Myne honestye to blott;
Thou was affrayde, or ells thou shouldst
Haue done it well, I wote.
For thou no sooner tooke thy loue
Of me, nor from me went,
When Diomede with his sleated lipps
Hathe faste my bridle hent.
And then he sharpes his subtill will,
And faste his brayne he fyles,
And tipps his tongue with Rethoricks sweit,
Bewitchinge me with wyles,
And layethe me forthe his loue alonge,
he no persuasion spares.
Sometymes he Piteous tears dothe shedd,
Some tyme as madd he stayres;
Then dothe he bragg of Parentes stout,
And in these eares of myne
He ringes me out his royall race,
And tells his stately lyne.
Of Meliagers force he boastes,
And howe the Bore he smightes,
And howe his father Tedeus slewe
Well armed fiftye knightes.
Then dothe he promise Golden hills,
Nowe hight me giftes full large,
Forthwith he swears to make me Quene
of Callidon & Arge.
But looke, even as the whiskinge wyndes
Of Borias blasting boulde
Amid the playne & champion feildes
May take no staye or holde,
His talke so one eare fills & out
At t'other streight dothe goe:
For then I was to Troyalus vowed,
I swore to loue no moe.
And thus he prates me on the waye,
Till of the Grekish hoste
We had a sight: he seinge then
His mynde in vayne was loste,
Did hartely pray & me intreat,
As humblie as he can,
T'accept him as my seruant. Lo!
What should I doe? as then
I tooke him, so his painted wordes
So muche did me abuse.
But Troyalus, O moste worthy knight!
Of the I craue excuse.
Too hastye thou may thinke I was,
I might haue yet delayed.
Allas! to hastye may I saye—
What travells longe thou made
And Pandarus, eare ye could bringe
The half of this to passe!
His cursinges weighe me downe to hell,
I feile ther payse, allas!
Nowe, nowe my witt, wher be your help
Some apte excuse to make?
All wemen can devyse at will,
Yet myne, allas! are slacke.
But what excuse may me availe?
My consience is attaint;
For shame I feile my blood to faile,
My dyenge lym̄es are faynte.
And nowe amidd the campe of Greekes
We came, & as we paste,
Myne aged father, glad to se
me, ledd me in as faste.
Thatredes wreakfull brethern bothe
Doe muche my bewtye prayse,
The Lordes of Greece me welcomes bring,
The soldiers on me gaze.
Assoone as Phœbus on the moone
From coutche did clymbe the skyes,
Sir Diomede to the Tent Ilay
With spedy pace him plyes;
And faste he prayes, desyres, intreates
Me him some signe to plight,
Wherby he might be knowne my man,
My seruant, or my knight.
And kyndenes dothe he on me threape,
As all were his at firste,
But yet he frustrate was as then,
Althoughe his harte should burste.
But then my father tolde me that
I must still ther soiourne,
And me assurd I neuer shoulde
To Troye againe retourne.
Then caste I in my troubled mynde
That Troyalus I had lorne,
Who sorrowed then but Cresyda
As ta fountaine he should tourne;
No consolacion could I fynde.
And then considderinge well
Howe I a woman was alone,
And dayly fortunes fell,
What happs might chance me I ne knewe,
I studyed this full longe;
My father olde, Sir Troyalus loste,
Then must I beare eche wronge.
Nowe this, nowe that, I ryfle vpp
Within my buissy brayne;
Whyles will I with my father staye,
Whyles steale to Troye againe.
A sevenight thus I liued—huge fight
was dayly still without,
Stronge garde within—eche thinge presentes
Vnto my harte a doubte.
I pondringe thus, thou sent the Greik,
Sir Diomeid, to his tent,
With woundes profounde & lardge which thou
In Irefull rage him lent;
To whom I came not myndinge evill,
But frindely him to veiwe,
And tooke my leave, lest he anon
Did fresh his mater shewe,
And me besought in humble wyse
To rewe vppon his smarte.
I, reckless wight, to soone, allas!
Did hight him then my harte.
Thou demed full lyte of all this fare,
Thou thoght I was none suche,
Till that on Diomeds cote of armes
Thou spyed the little bruche.
For after that full oft thou wouldste
With Creseyd him vprayde,
And for my sake, as was me tolde,
Thou haste him sore outrayde;
With thawked armes & helme to dasht,
With speare full sharpe Igrounde,
Scarce curable thou pearst his fleshe
With many a grevous wounde.
Why on this traytour stay I thus?
The goddes me on him wreake.
Let fate worke on: lyfe leaves my limms,
Even scarcely may I speake.
He falsed hathe his faithe to me,
And light lied me, allas!
Of force the courte I left, & to
My fathers house did passe.
The crewell godes not yet content
With me to make accordd,
My luringe face they leaper made,
To se me men abhord.
To hospitall by night I stole
My self from sight to saue,
Wher me was giuen a clappinge dishe
My wretched cromms to crave,
As thou me foundst, when as thou caste
Thy golde into my lapp.
Wouldst thou, O Troyalus, thought ther should
haue chanst me suche mishapp?
Ye famous painters wonted were
To drawe with coulers pure
The forme of thinge, with dainty hande,
For euermore endure;
And ye ingrauers, purposely,
Suche artes as erste were paste,
Did beate in massy marble stronge
Eternally to laste;
But loue in mowld of memory
Imprintes in perfitt harte
The loued, so that deathe it self
Can noght the same devert.
As nowe by the, O Troyalus deare,
I plainely may appeare,
Dothe ought resemble yet the shape
That Cresyade once did beare?
It cannot be: but nowe, but nowe,
My ghost must hence depart,
I feile the stinge of gaspinge deathe
Dothe strayne me by the harte.
No gratefull token may I send,
My golden giftes are scante;
My harte to send thou might refuse,
And say it truthe dothe wante.
Except a ringe nought ells I haue
Which thou me gave that night
That ioyned was our hartes in one,
And faythe to others plight;
The which I send in Paper lapte,
Bewashed with my teares,
By him that beares my latest lynes
And funerall that heares.
But this had I almoste forgott,
So troubleth deathe my mynde,
That thou voutchsafe tentere the corps
That of thyne armes hathe wynde,
And on my Tombe some Epitaphe
Engraue as lykes the beste.
So fayre the well!—this lipers knight
Can showe of me the rest.

XXXI. [Whilst brazen bodies breathing flames of fire.]

XXXII. [What is beutie.]

What is beutie? if it be
A reall thing, why may not I
As well anothers beutie spie
As thine, faire thing? for if alone
Beutie were thine, the world wold mone
A losse of judgement, haueing eys to see,
Since others others loue as I doe thee.
Therefore beleeue mee, beutie, as eyes foode
Is but as they esteeme or badde or goode,
I make the faire in thinking thou art so:
Then, faire, denye me not what I bestowe.

XXXIII. [Be as thow seemst, faire creature.]

Be as thow seemst, faire creature,
Or call not it unconstancie
To change when that doth change I lou'd in thee.
I think that nature wold haue made the faire:
No questioune but shee aim'd to make the goode.
But 't seemes thy froward nature her withstoode,
So litle didst thou scape of being rare
Of vertue: pittie onlie dost thou lake,
And onlie frownes thy beutie fowle doe make.
Haue pittie then: want frownes: the world shall see
Thy beeing as thou seemst my constancie.

XXXIV. [If when I die to hells eternall shade.]