The Poems of Henry Howard :: :: University of Virginia Library

The sonne hath twyse brought forthe the tender grene,
And cladd the yerthe in lively lustynes;
Ones have the wyndes the trees dispoyled clene,
And now agayne begynnes their cruelnes;
Sins I have hidd vnder my brest the harme
That never shall recover helthfulnes.

The wynters hurt recovers with the warme;
The perched grene restored is with shade;
What warmth, alas! may sarve for to disarme
The froosyn hart, that my inflame hath made?
What colde agayne is hable to restore
My freshe grene yeres, that wither thus & faade?
Alas! I see nothinge to hurt so sore
But tyme somtyme reduceth a retourne;
Yet tyme my harme increseth more & more,
And semes to have my cure allwayes in skorne.
Straunge kynd of death, in lief that I doo trye:
At hand to melt, farr of in flame to bourne,
And like as time list to my cure aply;
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse.
Eche thing alive that sees the heaven with eye,
With cloke of night maye cover and excuse
Him self from travaile of the dayes vnrest,
Save I, alas! against all others vse,
That then sturre vpp the torment of my brest,
To curse eche starr as cawser of my faat.
And when the sonne hath eke the darke represt
And brought the daie, yet doth nothing abaat
The travaile of my endles smart & payne;
Ffor then, as one that hath the light in haat,
I wishe for night, more covertlye to playne,
And me withdrawe from everie haunted place,
Lest in my chere my chaunce should pere to playne;
And with my mynd I measure, paas by paas,
To seke that place where I my self hadd lost,
That daye that I was tangled in that laase,
In seming slacke that knytteth ever most.
But never yet the trayvaile of my thought
Of better state could catche a cawse to bost,
For yf I fynde, somtyme that I have sought,
Those starres by whome I trusted of the port,
My sayles do fall, and I advaunce right nought;
As anchord fast, my sprites do all resort
To stand atgaas, and sinke in more & more:
The deadlye harme which she dooth take in sport.
Loo! yf I seke, how I do fynd my sore!
And yf I flye, I carrey with me still

The venymd shaft which dothe his force restore
By hast of flight. And I maye playne my fill
Vnto my self, oneles this carefull song
Prynt in your hert some percell of my will;
For I, alas! in sylence all to long,
Of myne old hurt yet fele the wound but grene.
Rue on me lief, or elles your crewell wrong
Shall well appeare, and by my deth be sene.