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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| V. |
| VI. |
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| IX. |
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| XIV. |
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| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. | XXIX. ELEGYE. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
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 | The Works of William Fowler |  |
XXIX. ELEGYE.
The tormentes strange, the grevous care
So longe that burnt my breist
In servinge of those butyes rare
That first my hart posest,
dothe not so muche my minde moleste
with passions night & daye,
As absence when I seme at rest
dothe eat my hart awaye.
So longe that burnt my breist
In servinge of those butyes rare
That first my hart posest,
dothe not so muche my minde moleste
with passions night & daye,
As absence when I seme at rest
dothe eat my hart awaye.
I want, & yet I haue at will
The cropp of my desyre;
I haue that [may] my mynde fulfill
Yet lackes that I requyre.
O absence, quensher of the fyre
That should my lyffe sustayne,
By the I feile my ioyes expyre,
By the I swelt in payne!
The cropp of my desyre;
I haue that [may] my mynde fulfill
Yet lackes that I requyre.
O absence, quensher of the fyre
That should my lyffe sustayne,
By the I feile my ioyes expyre,
By the I swelt in payne!
377
Sore might thou sighe, o prince of Troy,
When Creseyd the beguyld;
Great was the Thebans knightes annoy
When Thesius him exyled;
But trible is this furye wylde
That breides my hartes dispayre;
I feare my fortune so vnmylde
That death shall end my care.
When Creseyd the beguyld;
Great was the Thebans knightes annoy
When Thesius him exyled;
But trible is this furye wylde
That breides my hartes dispayre;
I feare my fortune so vnmylde
That death shall end my care.
But woe is me that suche dispayres
Should harbour in my harte,
Since she for whom I feile these cares
Is partner of my smart,
And that I knowe hir constant part,
That rather wishethe deathe
Ere from hir promise she astart
So longe as lastethe breathe.
Should harbour in my harte,
Since she for whom I feile these cares
Is partner of my smart,
And that I knowe hir constant part,
That rather wishethe deathe
Ere from hir promise she astart
So longe as lastethe breathe.
When absence dothe depart vs two
Whose hartes are knitt in one,
Me thinckes I feile hir secrett woe
And all hir dreyry mone,
And howe she sighinge saythe alone:
“Ah! when shall I him see
Who with my hart from me is gone,
And left his harte with me?
Whose hartes are knitt in one,
Me thinckes I feile hir secrett woe
And all hir dreyry mone,
And howe she sighinge saythe alone:
“Ah! when shall I him see
Who with my hart from me is gone,
And left his harte with me?
What is this lyffe but deathe to me
If he be not in sight?
Wher he is not my light should be,
What is my daye but night?
And as he is to me the wight
Whose truthe surbraues the best,
So shall I be the rocke aright
Wher his trewe hart shall reste.
If he be not in sight?
Wher he is not my light should be,
What is my daye but night?
And as he is to me the wight
Whose truthe surbraues the best,
So shall I be the rocke aright
Wher his trewe hart shall reste.
378
Then, then, me thinckes, eche christall flood
That tricklethe downe hir face
Are at my hart lyke springes of blood,
Newe persed in eche place.
Eche sighe she sighs dothe quyte arace
The harte out of my breist;
Of sorrowes all I am the case,
Of cares I am the chist.
That tricklethe downe hir face
Are at my hart lyke springes of blood,
Newe persed in eche place.
Eche sighe she sighs dothe quyte arace
The harte out of my breist;
Of sorrowes all I am the case,
Of cares I am the chist.
Yet is it not suche Ielous fears
As comōn louers proue,
Suche inward sighs suche outward teares
As dayly followe love:
The fury fearce that dothe me move,
And downe my ioyes dothe caste,
Is that the hope wheron I houe
Will worke my Wracke at laste.
As comōn louers proue,
Suche inward sighs suche outward teares
As dayly followe love:
The fury fearce that dothe me move,
And downe my ioyes dothe caste,
Is that the hope wheron I houe
Will worke my Wracke at laste.
And dreadinge thus the haples end
Wherto our truths shall tourne,
Dispayre dothe so my mynde offend
That nought I can but mourne.
Yet shall my hart with her so iorne
In ioye or endlesse payne;
But fortune fawne or at me spurne,
Hirs will I still remayne.
Wherto our truths shall tourne,
Dispayre dothe so my mynde offend
That nought I can but mourne.
Yet shall my hart with her so iorne
In ioye or endlesse payne;
But fortune fawne or at me spurne,
Hirs will I still remayne.
Finis.
| The Works of William Fowler | |