The Works of William Fowler Secretary to Queen Anne, Wife of James VI. Edited with introduction, appendix, notes and glossary by Henry W. Meikle |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | VII. [My dolefull harte, the tombe of deadly care.] |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
|
 | The Works of William Fowler |  |
345
VII. [My dolefull harte, the tombe of deadly care.]
My dolefull harte, the tombe of deadly care,
My wearye ghost, that flickereth to & fro,
My bailfull breste, the den̄ of darke dispaire,
Complaintes do followe me whersoe I goe,
And I am right the register of rewe—
Lo, what it is to love & to be trewe!
My wearye ghost, that flickereth to & fro,
My bailfull breste, the den̄ of darke dispaire,
Complaintes do followe me whersoe I goe,
And I am right the register of rewe—
Lo, what it is to love & to be trewe!
Wher are become those Ioyfull dayes & hours
When euerye wishe so well to me applyed?
Howe fynde I love & fortune on me lowres
That did the bridle of my fancye guyde?
I feele thy sworde (O sorrowe) throw me slyde;
My blood doth faile; my mynde, opprest with paine,
dothe curse eche cause that dothe my life sustaine.
When euerye wishe so well to me applyed?
Howe fynde I love & fortune on me lowres
That did the bridle of my fancye guyde?
I feele thy sworde (O sorrowe) throw me slyde;
My blood doth faile; my mynde, opprest with paine,
dothe curse eche cause that dothe my life sustaine.
Those sugred wordes, thaucthors of my smarte,
Those golden hayres that first my fredome lent,
Those streaminge lightes that heald & hurtes my hart,
Those lyvely looks that from my self me rent,
That heavenly face, & all should me content
Is fled, (alace!) and plaintes & endlesse smarte
accompanyes my guiltlesse martyred harte.
Those golden hayres that first my fredome lent,
Those streaminge lightes that heald & hurtes my hart,
Those lyvely looks that from my self me rent,
That heavenly face, & all should me content
Is fled, (alace!) and plaintes & endlesse smarte
accompanyes my guiltlesse martyred harte.
A stormy Cloude eclipsed hathe the soone
Whose beames did light my harte at euerye vayne;
My barke that earst in wished baye did wonne
Is broken on the rocke of falce disdaine;
The floodes of woe wherin my breist I baine,
The wavinge sighs, the teares of Inward stryffe,
Hathe drownde the hope that ancord earst my lyffe.
Whose beames did light my harte at euerye vayne;
My barke that earst in wished baye did wonne
Is broken on the rocke of falce disdaine;
The floodes of woe wherin my breist I baine,
The wavinge sighs, the teares of Inward stryffe,
Hathe drownde the hope that ancord earst my lyffe.
346
O who shall calme this tempest of my greife,
Or who shall drye these seas of sorrows deipe?
O deathe, (alas!), the troubled hartes releiffe,
Be thou my Bote! O rocke my soule a sleipe!
That sweite desyre that earst my lyffe did keipe
Throughe newe desyre to bitter plaintes is brought,
And all my thoughtes are turned into nought.
Or who shall drye these seas of sorrows deipe?
O deathe, (alas!), the troubled hartes releiffe,
Be thou my Bote! O rocke my soule a sleipe!
That sweite desyre that earst my lyffe did keipe
Throughe newe desyre to bitter plaintes is brought,
And all my thoughtes are turned into nought.
O yee myne eyes, the herauldes of my hart,
Why looke ye so, or ells why were ye blynde?
O loue, when first thou peirst me with thy darte,
Would god to death that charge had bene assigned!
Woe to ech wight that to my will inclynd!
But when my tongue did first my cares out caste,
Would god my formost wounde had bene my laste!
Why looke ye so, or ells why were ye blynde?
O loue, when first thou peirst me with thy darte,
Would god to death that charge had bene assigned!
Woe to ech wight that to my will inclynd!
But when my tongue did first my cares out caste,
Would god my formost wounde had bene my laste!
Finis.
| The Works of William Fowler | |