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

O lothsome place! where I
Haue sene and herd my dere,
When in my hert her eye
Hath made her thought appere,
By glimsing with such grace
As fortune it ne would
That lasten any space
Betwene vs lenger should.

As fortune did auance
To further my desire,
Euen so hath fortunes chance
Throwen all ammiddes the myre;
And that I haue deserued
With true and faithful hart,
Is to his handes reserued
That neuer felt the smart.

But happy is that man
That scaped hath the griefe
That loue well teche him can,
By wanting his reliefe.
A scourage to quiet mindes
It is, who taketh hede,
A common plage that bindes,
A trauell without mede.

This gift it hath also,
Who so enioies it most
A thousand troubles grow
To vexe his weried ghost.
And last it may not long—
The truest thing of all—,
And sure the greatest wrong
That is within this thrall.

But sins thou, desert place,
Canst giue me no accompt
Of my desired grace
That I to haue was wont,
Farwel! thou hast me tought
To thinke me not the furst
That loue hath set aloft
And casten in the dust.