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 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 9. |
| 11. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
|
|
|
|
| 1. |
| I. |
|
| II. |
| 2. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. | 22. [Melancholia.] |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
|
| 1. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
22. [Melancholia.]
Some men will saie, there is a kinde of muse,
That helps the minde of each man to endite;
And some will saie (that many muses vse)
There are but nyne, that euer vsde to wryte.
Nowe of thes nyne, if I haue gotten one,
I muse what Muse it is, I hitt vpon.
That helps the minde of each man to endite;
And some will saie (that many muses vse)
There are but nyne, that euer vsde to wryte.
Nowe of thes nyne, if I haue gotten one,
I muse what Muse it is, I hitt vpon.
Some poetes write, there is a certaine hill,
Wher Pallas keepes, and that parnassus hight;
There muses sitt forsooth, and cutt the quill
That being framde, doth hidden fancyes write;
But all those dames do heavnly causes singe,
And all their pennes, are of a Phœnix winge.
Wher Pallas keepes, and that parnassus hight;
There muses sitt forsooth, and cutt the quill
That being framde, doth hidden fancyes write;
But all those dames do heavnly causes singe,
And all their pennes, are of a Phœnix winge.
But as for me, I neuer sawe the place,
Except in sleepe I dreamd of suche a thinge;
I neuer veiwde dame Pallas in the face,
Nor euer yet cold here her muses singe,
Wherby to frame a fauncy in such kinde;
Oh no my muse is of another mynde.
Except in sleepe I dreamd of suche a thinge;
I neuer veiwde dame Pallas in the face,
Nor euer yet cold here her muses singe,
Wherby to frame a fauncy in such kinde;
Oh no my muse is of another mynde.
Ffrom hellicon, no, no, from hell she came,
To write of woes, and miseries she hight;
Not Pallas but (alas) her ladies name,
Who neuer calls for ditties of delight;
Her pen is paine, and all her matter moane,
And paunting hartes, she paintes her mynde vpon.
To write of woes, and miseries she hight;
Not Pallas but (alas) her ladies name,
Who neuer calls for ditties of delight;
Her pen is paine, and all her matter moane,
And paunting hartes, she paintes her mynde vpon.
A harte (not harpe) is all her instrument,
Whose weakned stringes all out of tune she stranes;
And then she strikes a dumpe of discontent,
Till euery stringe be pluckt a too with pains;
Loe then in rage, she claps it vp in case,
That none maie see her instrumentes disgrace.
Whose weakned stringes all out of tune she stranes;
And then she strikes a dumpe of discontent,
Till euery stringe be pluckt a too with pains;
Loe then in rage, she claps it vp in case,
That none maie see her instrumentes disgrace.
Her musinge is (in sume) but sorrows songe,
Where discordes yeld a sounde of smale delight;
The dittie this, of life that lastes to longe,
To see desire so crossèd with despight;
No faithe on earth, alas I knowe no frend,
So with a sighe she makes a solenme end.
Where discordes yeld a sounde of smale delight;
The dittie this, of life that lastes to longe,
To see desire so crossèd with despight;
No faithe on earth, alas I knowe no frend,
So with a sighe she makes a solenme end.
Who can delight in suche a wofull sounde,
Or loues to here a lay of deepe lament?
What note is sweete, when greif is all the grounde?
Discordes can yeld but only discontent:
The wrest is wronge, that strayns eche stringe to farre,
And stryfes the stoppes that giue eche stroake a Jarre.
Or loues to here a lay of deepe lament?
What note is sweete, when greif is all the grounde?
Discordes can yeld but only discontent:
The wrest is wronge, that strayns eche stringe to farre,
And stryfes the stoppes that giue eche stroake a Jarre.
Harshe is alas, the harmony, god knowes,
When owte of Tune is almost euery stringe;
The sounde not sweete that all of sorrowe growes,
And sad the muse that so is forst to singe;
But some do singe, that but for shame wold cryē,
So dothe my muse, and so sweare do I.
When owte of Tune is almost euery stringe;
The sounde not sweete that all of sorrowe growes,
And sad the muse that so is forst to singe;
But some do singe, that but for shame wold cryē,
So dothe my muse, and so sweare do I.
Good nature weeps to see her selfe abusèd,
Yll fortune shewes her fury in her face;
Poore reasone pynes to see him selfe refusde,
And dutie dyes to see his sore disgrace;
Hope hanges the head, to see dispaire so neere,
And what but deathe can end this heavie cheere
Yll fortune shewes her fury in her face;
Poore reasone pynes to see him selfe refusde,
And dutie dyes to see his sore disgrace;
Hope hanges the head, to see dispaire so neere,
And what but deathe can end this heavie cheere
Behold each teare, no token of a toye,
But torment suche as teare my hart asunder;
Each sobbing sighe, a signe of suche anoye
As how I liue, beleue me till a wunder;
Each groane a grype, that makes me gaspe for breath,
And euery strain a bitter pange of deathe.
But torment suche as teare my hart asunder;
Each sobbing sighe, a signe of suche anoye
As how I liue, beleue me till a wunder;
Each groane a grype, that makes me gaspe for breath,
And euery strain a bitter pange of deathe.
Loe thus I liue, but looking still to dye,
And still I looke, but still I see in vayne;
And still in vaine, alas, I lye and crye
And still I cry but haue no ease of paine;
So still in paine I liue, looke, lie, and crye
When hope will helpe, or death will let me dye.
And still I looke, but still I see in vayne;
And still in vaine, alas, I lye and crye
And still I cry but haue no ease of paine;
So still in paine I liue, looke, lie, and crye
When hope will helpe, or death will let me dye.
Finis.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |