The Works of William Fowler Secretary to Queen Anne, Wife of James VI. Edited with introduction, appendix, notes and glossary by Henry W. Meikle |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. | IX. ELIGYE. |
| 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. |
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 | The Works of William Fowler |  |
347
IX. ELIGYE.
Now find I well what fevers followe love
To them thats secrett, trew, & pacient aye.
The secrett thoughtes that secretlye I prove,
And secretlye pursues me night & daye,
The passions that my pacience dothe assay,
my truthe tormented with that feruent fyre
wherwith your bewty wastes my hart awaye,
might haste some harte of longsome loue to tyre.
But hope dothe so my constant spreit inspyre,
That in my care me thinckes she always sayes:
“Thou haste so highly placd thy hartes desyre
Thou cannot faile rewarde & lastinge prays.”
To them thats secrett, trew, & pacient aye.
The secrett thoughtes that secretlye I prove,
And secretlye pursues me night & daye,
The passions that my pacience dothe assay,
my truthe tormented with that feruent fyre
wherwith your bewty wastes my hart awaye,
might haste some harte of longsome loue to tyre.
But hope dothe so my constant spreit inspyre,
That in my care me thinckes she always sayes:
“Thou haste so highly placd thy hartes desyre
Thou cannot faile rewarde & lastinge prays.”
Yet say I not my truth deserues rewarde;
I merit nought, the lesser can I craue.
But if your bewtye list for to regarde
The wight whose harte no hart but yours may haue,
That were the wished wealth I would receaue.
But if disdaine shall dryve me in dispaire,
And bringe my corps with sorrow to the grave,
Yours is the falte, & deathe shall end my caire.
But lo! when I beholde the bewtyes rare
That God & nature doth in you compounde,
I saye of force some pittye must be ther,
Wher all suche heavenly graces doe abound.
I merit nought, the lesser can I craue.
But if your bewtye list for to regarde
The wight whose harte no hart but yours may haue,
That were the wished wealth I would receaue.
But if disdaine shall dryve me in dispaire,
And bringe my corps with sorrow to the grave,
Yours is the falte, & deathe shall end my caire.
But lo! when I beholde the bewtyes rare
That God & nature doth in you compounde,
I saye of force some pittye must be ther,
Wher all suche heavenly graces doe abound.
Since first your bewty thralde my youthfull mynde,
And forst my thoughtes vnto your thoughtes to bowe,
To worke your will my will was ay inclynde,
And wills no will saue that ye will allowe.
What vayles myne eyes if they beholde not you?
What serues my harte but service you to make?
Vnto your sweit regardes my thoughtes I vowe;
No sighs I sighe but onlye for your sake;
Nought but your presence may my sorrows slake;
Nought but your absence causeth me to mone.
Of my desyres ye haue the fortresse take;
I ame not myne if not for you alone.
And forst my thoughtes vnto your thoughtes to bowe,
To worke your will my will was ay inclynde,
And wills no will saue that ye will allowe.
348
What serues my harte but service you to make?
Vnto your sweit regardes my thoughtes I vowe;
No sighs I sighe but onlye for your sake;
Nought but your presence may my sorrows slake;
Nought but your absence causeth me to mone.
Of my desyres ye haue the fortresse take;
I ame not myne if not for you alone.
But O! who nowe saue I hathe cause to plaine?
Who may but I nowe curse the destnyes three?
O crewell absence! aucthor of my paine!
Alas! I haue no deadlye foe but the.
I seeke hir presence forst the same to flye,
Whose absence presentes me a worlde of care;
But be I absent, present, faste, or free,
My harte is hirs in hope or in dispaire.
The sory sighs lets not my tongue declare
The sadd adews my soule to you would send;
Yet to your bewtyes, grace, & vertues rare,
Ten thousand tymes my harte I recomend.
Who may but I nowe curse the destnyes three?
O crewell absence! aucthor of my paine!
Alas! I haue no deadlye foe but the.
I seeke hir presence forst the same to flye,
Whose absence presentes me a worlde of care;
But be I absent, present, faste, or free,
My harte is hirs in hope or in dispaire.
The sory sighs lets not my tongue declare
The sadd adews my soule to you would send;
Yet to your bewtyes, grace, & vertues rare,
Ten thousand tymes my harte I recomend.
Finis.
| The Works of William Fowler | |