 | The Complete Works of George Gascoigne |  |
The Reporter.
These vaunting verses with a many mo,
(To his mishap) have come unto my handes,
Whereof the rest (bicause he sayled so,
In braggers boate which set it selfe on sandes,
And brought him eke fast bound in follyes bands)
Of curtesie I keepe them from your sight,
Let these suffice which of my selfe I write.
(To his mishap) have come unto my handes,
Whereof the rest (bicause he sayled so,
In braggers boate which set it selfe on sandes,
And brought him eke fast bound in follyes bands)
Of curtesie I keepe them from your sight,
Let these suffice which of my selfe I write.
105
The highest tree that ever yet could growe,
Although full fayre it florisht for a season,
Founde yet at last some fall to bring it lowe,
This olde sayd sawe is (God he knoweth) not geason:
For when things passe the reach and bounds of reason,
They fall at last, although they stand a time,
And bruse the more, the higher that they clime.
Although full fayre it florisht for a season,
Founde yet at last some fall to bring it lowe,
This olde sayd sawe is (God he knoweth) not geason:
For when things passe the reach and bounds of reason,
They fall at last, although they stand a time,
And bruse the more, the higher that they clime.
So Bartholmew unto his paine dyd prove,
For when he thought his hap to be most hye,
And that he onely reapt the fruictes of love,
And that he swelt in all prosperitie,
His comfort chaunged to calamitie:
And though I doe him wrong to tell the same,
Yet reade it you, and let me beare the blame.
For when he thought his hap to be most hye,
And that he onely reapt the fruictes of love,
And that he swelt in all prosperitie,
His comfort chaunged to calamitie:
And though I doe him wrong to tell the same,
Yet reade it you, and let me beare the blame.
The Saint he serv'd became a craftie devill,
His goddesse to an Idoll seemde to chaunge,
Thus all his good transformed into evill,
And every joy to raging griefe dyd raunge:
Which Metamorphosis was marvels straunge:
Yet shall you seldome otherwise it prove,
Where wicked Lust doth beare the name of Love.
His goddesse to an Idoll seemde to chaunge,
Thus all his good transformed into evill,
And every joy to raging griefe dyd raunge:
Which Metamorphosis was marvels straunge:
Yet shall you seldome otherwise it prove,
Where wicked Lust doth beare the name of Love.
This sodaine chaunge when he began to spye,
And colde suspect into his minde had crept,
He bounst and bet his head tormentingly,
And from all company him selfe he kept,
Wherby so farre in stormes of strife he stept,
That nowe he seemed an Image not a man,
His eyes so dead, his colour waxt so wan.
And colde suspect into his minde had crept,
He bounst and bet his head tormentingly,
And from all company him selfe he kept,
Wherby so farre in stormes of strife he stept,
That nowe he seemed an Image not a man,
His eyes so dead, his colour waxt so wan.
And I which alwayes beare him great good wyll,
(Although I knew the cause of all his griefe,
And what had trainde and tysed him theretyll,
And plaine to speake, what moved his mischiefe)
Yet since I sought to ease him with reliefe:
I dyd become importunate to knowe,
The secreete cause whereon this grudge should growe.
(Although I knew the cause of all his griefe,
And what had trainde and tysed him theretyll,
And plaine to speake, what moved his mischiefe)
Yet since I sought to ease him with reliefe:
I dyd become importunate to knowe,
The secreete cause whereon this grudge should growe.
106
At last with much ado, his trembling tonge,
Bewrayde theffect of his unwylling wyll,
Which here to tell since it were all to longe,
And I therewith too barren am of skyll,
And trouble you with tedious tydinges styll,
Content you now to heare himselfe rehearse,
His strange affectes in his lamenting verse.
Bewrayde theffect of his unwylling wyll,
Which here to tell since it were all to longe,
And I therewith too barren am of skyll,
And trouble you with tedious tydinges styll,
Content you now to heare himselfe rehearse,
His strange affectes in his lamenting verse.
Which verse he wrote at Bathe (as earst was sayd)
And there I sawe him when he wrote the same,
I sawe him there with many moanes dismaide,
I sawe him there both fryse and flashe in flame,
I sawe him greev'd when others made good game:
And so appeareth by his darke discourse,
The which to reade I crave your just remorse.
And there I sawe him when he wrote the same,
I sawe him there with many moanes dismaide,
I sawe him there both fryse and flashe in flame,
I sawe him greev'd when others made good game:
And so appeareth by his darke discourse,
The which to reade I crave your just remorse.
| The Complete Works of George Gascoigne | |