The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton For the First Time Collected and Edited: With Memorial-Introduction, Notes and Illustrations, Glossarial Index, Facsimilies, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart. In Two Volumes |
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
An Extreame Passion.
Ovt of the depth of deadly griefe, tormenting day and night;A wounded heart and wretched soule depriu'd of all delight;
Where neuer thought of comfort came, that passiō might appease;
Or by the smallest sparke of hope might giue the smallest ease:
Let me intreat that solemne Muse that serues but Sorrowes turne,
In ceasselesse sighes and endlesse sobs to helpe my soule to mourne.
But, Oh what thought beyōd al thought hath thought to think vpon,
Where Patience findes her greatest power in passions ouergon.
That neere the doore of Natures death in dolefull notes doth dwell;
In Horrors fits that will describe my too much figur'd hell.
What want, what wrong, what care, what crosse, may crucifie a hart;
But day and howre I doe endure in all and euery part?
Want to sustaine the Bodies neede, wrong to distract the minde:
Where Want makes Wit and Reason both to goe against their kinde.
Care to deuise for Comforts helpe; but so by Fortune crost,
As kils the heart, to cast the eye on nought but labour lost.
Desire to liue, in spite of Death, yet still in liuing dying;
And so a greater death than death, by want of dying, trying.
Oh, hell of hels, if euer earth such horror can afford,
Where such a world of helpelesse cares doe lay the heart aboord.
No day, no night, no thought, no dreame, but of that doleful nature,
That may amaze, or sore affright, a most afflicted creature.
Friends turnd to foes, foes vse their force; and Fortune in her pride,
Shaks hand with Fate, to make my soule the weight of sorrow bide,
Care brings in sicknes, sicknes pain, and paine with patience passion,
With biting in most bitter griefes brings feature out of fashion;
Where brawn falne cheeks, heart scalding sighs, and dimmèd eyes with teares
Doe shewe, in Lifes anatomy, what burthen Sorrowe beares.
Where all day long in helplesse cares, all hopelesse of reliefe,
I wish for night, I might not see the objectes of my griefe.
And when night comes, woes keep my wits in such a waking vaine,
That I could wish, though to my griefe, that it were day againe.
Thus daies are nights, which nights are daies, which daies are like those nights,
That to my passiōs sēse presēt but only Sorrows sights;
Which to the eye but of the minde of Misery appeare,
To fill the heart of forlorne Hope too full of heauie cheare.
Oh hart how canst thou hold so long, and art not broke ere this?
9
Yet must thou make thy musicke still but of that mournfull straine,
Where Sorrowe, in the sound of death, doth shew her sweetest vain:
Or where her Muses all consent in their consort to trie
Their sweetest musicke, in desire to die, and cannot die.
The pellican that kils her selfe, her young ones for to feede,
Is pleas'd to dy that they may liue, that suck when she doth bleede:
But while I in those cares consume that would my spirit kill,
Nought liues by me, when I must die, to feede but Sorrowes will.
The hart that's hūted all day long, hath sport yet with the hoūds,
And happly beats off many a dogge before his deadly wounds:
But my poore heart is hunted still with such a cruell cry,
As in their dogged humours liue, while I alone must die.
The swan that sings before her death, doth shew that she is pleas'd,
To knowe that death will not be long in helping the diseas'd:
But my poore swanlike soule, (alas) hath no such power to sing;
Because she knowes not when my death will make my care a king.
What shall I say? but only say; I knowe not what to say:
So many torments teare my heart, and tugge it euery way.
My sunne is turnd into a shade, or else mine eyes are blinde,
That Sorrowes cloude makes all seeme darke, that comes into my minde.
My youth to age; or else because my comforts are so colde,
My sorrowe makes me in conceit to be decrepit olde.
My hopes to feares; or else because my fortunes are forlorne,
My fancie makes me make my selfe vnto my selfe vnto my selfe a scorne.
My life to death; or else because my heart is so perplexed,
I finde my selfe but liuing dead, to feele my soule so vexed.
For what is here that earth can yeeld in Pleasures sweetest vaine,
But in the midst of all my cares doth still increase my paine?
While epicures are overglut, I ly, and starue for foode;
Because my conscience can not thriue vpon ill gotten good.
While other swimme in choyce of silkes, I sit alone in ragges;
Because I can not fitte the time to fill the golden bagges.
While other are bedeckt in golde, in pearle, and pretious stone;
I sigh to see they haue so much, and I can light of none.
Not that I enuie their estate, but wish that God would giue
Some comfort to my carefull hope, wherby my heart might liue.
Some please themselves in choyce of sports, in trifles and in toies;
While my poore feeble spirit feedes of nothing but annoyes.
Some haue their houses stately built, and gorgeous to beholde;
While in a cottage, bare and poore, I bide the bitter colde.
Some haue their chariots and their horse, to beare them to and fro;
While I am glad to walke on foote, and glad I can doe so.
Some haue their musickes hermony, to please their idle eares;
While of the song of sorrow still my soule the burthen beares.
Some haue their choice of all perfumes, that Natures arte can giue;
While sinne doth stinke so in my soule, as makes me loath to liue.
They, like the wielders of the world, command, and haue their will;
While I, a weakling in the world, am slaue to sorrow still.
The owle, that makes the night her day, delights yet in the darke;
But I am forc't to play the owle, that haue beene bred a larke.
The eagle from the lowest vale can mount the lofty skie;
But I am falne downe from the hill, and in the vale must die.
The sparrow in a princes house can finde a place to builde;
I scarce can finde out any place that will my comfort yeelde.
The little wrenne doth find a worme, the little finch a seede;
While my poore heart doth hunger still, and finds but little feede.
The bee doth find her hony flower, the butterflie her leafe;
But I can finde a worlde of corne, that yeeldes not me a sheafe.
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At night come home, and take their rest, and lay their worke away:
While my poore heart, both day and night, in passions ouertoild;
By ouerlabour of my braine doth finde my spirit spoiled.
The winds doe blowe away the clowds, that would obscure the sun;
And how all glorious is the sky, when once the stormes are done!
But in the heavē of my harts hope, where my loves light doth shine;
I nothing see, but clouds of cares, or else my sunne decline.
The earth is watred, smooth'd and drest, to keepe her gardens gay;
While my poore heart, in woefull thoughtes, must wither still away.
The sea is sometime at a calme, where shippes at anchor ride;
And fishes, on the sunny shore, doe play on euery side:
But my poore heart in Sorrows seas, is sicke of such a qualme;
As, while these stormy tempests holde, can neuer looke for calme.
So that I see, each bird and beast, the sea, the earth, the sky,
All sometime in their pleasures liue, while I alone must die.
Now thinke, if all this be too true, (as would it were not so)
If any creature liue on earth, that doe like sorrow knowe.
Nay, aske of Sorrow, euen her selfe, to thinke how I am wounded,
If she be not, to see my woes, within her selfe confounded:
Or say, no figure can suffice my sorrowes frame to fashion,
Where Patiēce thus hath shew'd her selfe, beyōd her selfe in passion.
Par nulla figura dolori, nec dolor meo.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |