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

When sommer toke in hand the winter to assail
With force of might and vertue gret, his stormy blasts to quail,
And when he clothed faire the earth about with grene,
And euery tree new garmented, that pleasure was to sene,
Mine hart gan new reuiue, and changed blood dyd stur
Me to withdraw my winter woe, that kept within the dore.
Abrode, quod my desire, assay to set thy fote,
Where thou shalt finde the sauour sweete, for sprong is euery rote;
And to thy health, if thou were sick in any case,
Nothing more good than in the spring the aire to fele a space.
There shalt thou here and se all kindes of birdes ywrought,
Well tune their voice with warble smal, as nature hath them tought.
Thus pricked me my lust the sluggish house to leaue,
And for my health I thought it best suche counsail to receaue.
So on a morow furth, vnwist of any wight,
I went to proue how well it would my heauy burden light.
And when I felt the aire so pleasant round about,
Lorde, to my self how glad I was that I had gotten out.
There might I see how Ver had euery blossom hent,
And eke the new betrothed birdes ycoupled how they went.
And in their songes me thought they thanked nature much
That by her lycence all that yere to loue—their happe was such—
Right as they could deuise to chose them feres throughout;

With much reioysing to their Lord thus flew they all about.
Which when I gan resolue, and in my head conceaue,
What pleasant life, what heapes of ioy, these little birdes receue,
And sawe in what estate I, wery man, was brought
By want of that they had at will, and I reiect at nought,
Lorde, how I gan in wrath vnwisely me demeane.
I curssed loue, and him defied; I thought to turne the streame.
But whan I well behelde he had me vnder awe,
I asked mercie for my fault that so transgrest his law.
“Thou blinded god,” quoth I, “forgeue me this offense;
Vnwillingly I went about to malice thy pretense.”
Wherewith he gaue a beck, and thus me thought he swore:
“Thy sorow ought suffice to purge thy faulte, if it were more.”
The vertue of which sounde mine hart did so reuiue
That I, me thought, was made as hole as any man aliue.
But here ye may perceiue mine errour, all and some,
For that I thought that so it was, yet was it still vndone;
And all that was no more but mine empressed mynde,
That fayne woulde haue some good relese of Cupide wel assinde.
I turned home forthwith, and might perceiue it well,
That he agreued was right sore with me for my rebell.
My harmes haue euer since increased more and more,
And I remaine, without his help, vndone for euer more.
A miror let me be vnto ye louers all:
Striue not with loue, for if ye do, it will ye thus befall.