 | Poems of Thomas, Lord Vaux |  |
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XV. A DYTTYE OR SONET MADE BY THE LORDE VAUS IN TIME OF THE NOBLE QUEENE MARYE REP'SENTINGE THE IMAGE OF DEATHE.
I loathe that I dyd loue,
In youth that I thought sweete:
As tyme requyrth for my behove,
Mee thinkes theye are not meete:
In youth that I thought sweete:
As tyme requyrth for my behove,
Mee thinkes theye are not meete:
My lustes they dooe mee leave,
My fancyes all are fledde,
And tracte of tyme, begyns to weve
Graye heares wth in my heade.
My fancyes all are fledde,
And tracte of tyme, begyns to weve
Graye heares wth in my heade.
Ffor Age with stealinge steppes,
Hath claude mee with his cruch,
And lustye youth awaye hee leapes,
As there had byn none such.
Hath claude mee with his cruch,
And lustye youth awaye hee leapes,
As there had byn none such.
My Muse doth not delight
Mee, as shee dyde before;
My hande and penne are not in plyte,
As they haue bene of yore.
Mee, as shee dyde before;
My hande and penne are not in plyte,
As they haue bene of yore.
Ffor Reason me denyes,
All youthly ydle ryme,
d dayedaAyn yb e on me hee cryes,
Leaue off theise toyes betyme.
All youthly ydle ryme,
d dayedaAyn yb e on me hee cryes,
Leaue off theise toyes betyme.
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The wrinkles in my browe,
My furrowes in my face,
Sayth lympinge Age hath caught him nowe,
Where youth must geve him place.
My furrowes in my face,
Sayth lympinge Age hath caught him nowe,
Where youth must geve him place.
The herbenger of death,
To mee I see him ryde:
The cough, the coulde, the gaspinge breath
Doth bydde me to provyde.
To mee I see him ryde:
The cough, the coulde, the gaspinge breath
Doth bydde me to provyde.
A picke axe and a spade,
And eke a wyndinge sheet,
A house of claye for to be made,
For such a gest most meete.
And eke a wyndinge sheet,
A house of claye for to be made,
For such a gest most meete.
Methinkes I heare the clarke,
That knylles the carefull bell,
And byds mee leave my wearye warke,
Ere Nature me compell.
That knylles the carefull bell,
And byds mee leave my wearye warke,
Ere Nature me compell.
My keepers knitte the knott,
That youth doth laughe to scorne,
Of mee, that shalbee cleane forgote
As I had ne'er bene borne.
That youth doth laughe to scorne,
Of mee, that shalbee cleane forgote
As I had ne'er bene borne.
Thus must I lyfe geue uppe,
Whose badge I longe dyd weare:
To them I yealde the wanton cuppe
That better maye it beare.
Whose badge I longe dyd weare:
To them I yealde the wanton cuppe
That better maye it beare.
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Loe here the bare hedde scull,
By whose bald signes I knowe
That stoopinge Age away shall pull
That youthfull yeares did sowe.
By whose bald signes I knowe
That stoopinge Age away shall pull
That youthfull yeares did sowe.
Ffor Beawtye with her bande,
These crookèd cares hath wrought,
And shippèd me into the londe,
From whense I first was brought.
These crookèd cares hath wrought,
And shippèd me into the londe,
From whense I first was brought.
And you that byde behynde,
Haue ye none other truste?
As ye of claye weare made by kinde,
So shall ye wast to duste.
Haue ye none other truste?
As ye of claye weare made by kinde,
So shall ye wast to duste.
| Poems of Thomas, Lord Vaux | |