31 THE POETS LAMENT FOR HIS LOST BOYHOOD
So crewell prison! howe could betyde, alas!
As prowde Wyndsour, where I, in lust & ioye,
With a Kinges soon my childishe yeres did passe,
In greater feast then Priams sonnes of Troye;
Where eche swete place retournes a tast full sowre.
The large grene courtes, where we wer wont to hove,
With eyes cast upp unto the maydens towre,
And easye sighes, such as folke drawe in love.
The statelye sales: the ladyes bright of hewe;
The daunces short; long tales of great delight;
With wordes and lookes, that tygers could but rewe,
Where eche of vs did plead the others right.
The palme playe, where, dispoyled for the game,
With dased eyes oft we by gleames of love
Have mist the ball, and got sight of our dame,
To bayte her eyes which kept the leddes above.
The graveld ground: with sleves tyed on the helme,
On fomynge horse, with swordes and frendlye hertes,
With chere, as thoughe the one should overwhelme,
Where we have fought & chased oft with dartes.
With sylver dropps the meades yet spredd for rewthe,
In active games of nymblenes and strengthe
Where we dyd strayne, trayled by swarmes of youthe,
Our tender lymes, that yet shott vpp in lengthe.
The secret groves, which oft we made resound
Of pleasaunt playnt & of our ladyes prayes,
Recording soft, what grace eche one had found,
What hope of spede, what dred of long delayes.
The wyld forest, the clothed holte with grene,
With raynes avald and swift ybrethed horse,
With crye of houndes and merey blastes bitwen,
Where we did chace the fearfull hart a force.
The voyd walles eke, that harbourde vs eche night;
Wherwith, alas! revive within my brest
The swete accord, such slepes as yet delight,
The pleasaunt dreames, the quyet bedd of rest,
The secret thoughtes imparted with such trust,
The wanton talke, the dyvers chaung of playe,
The frendshipp sworne, eche promyse kept so iust,
Wherwith we past the winter nightes awaye.
And with this thought the blood forsakes my face,
The teares berayne my chekes of dedlye hewe;
The which, as sone as sobbing sighes, alas!
Vpsupped have, thus I my playnt renewe:
“O place of blys! renewer of my woos!
Geve me accompt wher is my noble fere,
Whome in thy walles thow didest eche night enclose,
To other lief, but vnto me most dere.”
Eccho, alas! that dothe my sorowe rewe,
Retournes therto a hollowe sound of playnt.
Thus I, alone, where all my fredome grew,
In pryson pyne with bondage and restraynt;
And with remembraunce of the greater greif,
To bannishe the lesse, I fynde my chief releif.
