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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A Most Excellent Passion. Set Downe
By N. B. Gent. |
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
A Most Excellent Passion. Set Downe By N. B. Gent.
Com yonglings com, that seem to make such mone,
About a thing of nothing God he knowes:
With sighes and sobs, and many a greeuous grone,
And trickling teares, that secret sorow shewes,
Leaue, leaue to faine, and here behold indeed,
The onely man, may make your harts to bleed.
About a thing of nothing God he knowes:
With sighes and sobs, and many a greeuous grone,
And trickling teares, that secret sorow shewes,
Leaue, leaue to faine, and here behold indeed,
The onely man, may make your harts to bleed.
Whose state to tell; no, neuer toong can tell:
Whose woes are such; oh no, there are none such:
Whose hap so hard; nay rather halfe a hell:
Whose griefe so much: yea God he knowes too much:
Whose wofull state, and greeuous hap (alas),
The world may see, is such as neuer was.
Whose woes are such; oh no, there are none such:
Whose hap so hard; nay rather halfe a hell:
Whose griefe so much: yea God he knowes too much:
Whose wofull state, and greeuous hap (alas),
The world may see, is such as neuer was.
Good nature weepes to see hir selfe abused;
Ill fortune shewes hir furie in hir face:
Poore reason pines to see hir selfe refused:
And dutie dies, to see his sore disgrace.
Hope hangs the head, to see dispaire so neere;
And what but death can end this heauie cheere?
Ill fortune shewes hir furie in hir face:
Poore reason pines to see hir selfe refused:
And dutie dies, to see his sore disgrace.
Hope hangs the head, to see dispaire so neere;
And what but death can end this heauie cheere?
O cursèd cares, that neuer can be knowne:
Dole, worse than death, when neuer tong can tell it:
The hurt is hid, although the sorow showne,
Such is my paine, no pleasure can expell it.
In summe, I see I am ordainèd I:
To liue in dole, and so in sorow die.
Dole, worse than death, when neuer tong can tell it:
The hurt is hid, although the sorow showne,
Such is my paine, no pleasure can expell it.
In summe, I see I am ordainèd I:
To liue in dole, and so in sorow die.
Behold each teare, no token of a toy:
But torments such, as teare my hart asunder:
Each sobbing sigh, a signe of such annoy,
That how I liue, beleue mee tis a wonder.
Each grone, a gripe, that makes me gaspe for breath:
And euerie straine, a bitter pang of death.
But torments such, as teare my hart asunder:
Each sobbing sigh, a signe of such annoy,
That how I liue, beleue mee tis a wonder.
Each grone, a gripe, that makes me gaspe for breath:
And euerie straine, a bitter pang of death.
Loe thus I liue, but looking still to die:
And still I looke, but still I see in vaine:
And still in vaine, alas, I lie and crie:
And still I crie, but haue no ease of paine.
So still in paine, I liue, looke, lie, and crie:
When hope would helpe, or death would let me die.
And still I looke, but still I see in vaine:
And still in vaine, alas, I lie and crie:
And still I crie, but haue no ease of paine.
So still in paine, I liue, looke, lie, and crie:
When hope would helpe, or death would let me die.
Sometime I sleepe, a slumber, not a sleepe:
And then I dreame (God knowes) of no delight,
But of such woes, as makes me lie and weepe
Vntill I wake, in such a pitious plight;
As who beheld me sleeping or awaking,
Would say my heart were in a heauie taking.
And then I dreame (God knowes) of no delight,
But of such woes, as makes me lie and weepe
Vntill I wake, in such a pitious plight;
As who beheld me sleeping or awaking,
Would say my heart were in a heauie taking.
Looke as thè dew doth lie vpon the ground,
So sits the sweate of sorrow on my face:
Oh deadly dart, that strooke so deepe a wound,
Oh hatefull hap, to hit in such a place:
The hart is hurt, and bleedes the bodie ouer:
Yet cannot die, nor euer health recouer.
So sits the sweate of sorrow on my face:
Oh deadly dart, that strooke so deepe a wound,
Oh hatefull hap, to hit in such a place:
The hart is hurt, and bleedes the bodie ouer:
Yet cannot die, nor euer health recouer.
Then he or she, that hath a happie hand,
To helpe a hart, that hath no hope to liue:
Come, come with speede, and do not staying stand:
But if no one, can any comfort giue,
Run to the Church, and bid the Sexton toule
A solemne knell, yet for a silie soule.
To helpe a hart, that hath no hope to liue:
Come, come with speede, and do not staying stand:
But if no one, can any comfort giue,
Run to the Church, and bid the Sexton toule
A solemne knell, yet for a silie soule.
Harke how it sounds, that sorrow lasteth long:
Long, long: long long: long long, and longer yet:
Oh cruell Death; thou doost me double wrong,
To let me lie so long in such a fit:
Yet when I die, write neighbors where I lie;
Long was I dead, ere death would let me die.
Long, long: long long: long long, and longer yet:
Oh cruell Death; thou doost me double wrong,
To let me lie so long in such a fit:
Yet when I die, write neighbors where I lie;
Long was I dead, ere death would let me die.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |