"Songes and Sonettes written by the ryght honorable Lorde Henry Haward late Earle of Surrey, and other"

And for the while doth ease their smartes:
My self I shall the same way proue.
And though that loue hath smit the stroke,
Wherby is lost my libertie:
Which by no meanes I may reuoke:
Yet shall I sing, how pleasantly.
Ny twenty yeres of youth I past:
Which all in libertie I spent:
And so from fyrst vnto the last,
Er aught I knew, what louing ment.
And after shall I syng the wo,
The payne, the greefe, the deadly smart:
When loue this lyfe did ouerthrowe,
That hydden lyes within my hart.
And then, the ioyes, that I did feele.
When fortune lifted after this,
And set me hye vpon her whele:
And changed my wo to pleasant blisse,
And so the sodeyn fall agayne
From all the ioyes, that I was in.
All you, that list to heare of payne,
Geue eare, for now I doe beginne.
Lo, fyrst of all, when loue began
With hote desyres my heart to burne:
Me thought, his might auailde not than
From libertie my heart to turne.
For I was free: and dyd not knowe,
How much his might mannes hert may greue.
I had profest to be his fo:
His law I thought not to beleue.
I went vntyed in lusty leas,
I had my wish alwayes at will:
Ther was no wo, might me displease:
Of pleasant ioyes I had my fill.
No paynfull thought dyd passe my hart:
I spilt no teare to wet my brest:
I knew no sorow, sigh, nor smart.
My greatest grefe was quyet rest.
I brake no slepe, I tossed not:
Nor dyd delyte to syt alone.
I felt no change of colde, and hote:
Nor nought a nightes could make me mone.

S2r

For all was ioy that I did fele:
And of voide wandering I was free.
I had no clogge tied at my hele:
This was my life at libertie.
That yet me thinkes it is a blisse,
To thinke vpon that pleasure past.
But forthwithall I finde the misse,
For that it might no lenger last.
Those dayes I spent at my desire,
Without wo or aduersitie:
Till that my hart was set a fire,
With loue, with wrath, and ielousie.
For on a day (alas the while)
Lo, hear my harme how it began:
The blinded Lord, the God of guile
Had list to end my fredome than.
And through mine eye into my hart,
All sodenly I felt it glide.
He shot his sharped fiery dart,
So hard, that yet vnder my side
The head (alas) dothe still remaine,
And yet since could I neuer know,
The way to wring it out againe:
Yet was it nye three yere ago.
This soden stroke made me agast:
And it began to vexe me sore.
But yet I thought, it would haue past,
As other such had done before.
But it did not that (wo is me)
So depe imprinted in my thought,
The stroke abode: that yet I see,
Me thynkes my harme how it was wrought.
Kinde taught me streight that this was loue
And I perceiued it perfectlye.
Yet thought I thus: Nought shall me moue:
I will not thrall my libertie.
And diuers waies I did assay,
By flight, by force, by frend, by fo,
This fyrye thought to put away.
I was so lothe for to forgo
My libertie: that me was leuer,
Then bondage was, where I heard saie:

S2v

Who once was bounde, was sure neuer
Without great paine to scape away.
But what for that, there is no choyce,
For my mishap was shapen so:
That those my dayes that did reioyce,
Should turne my blisse to bitter wo.
For with that stroke my blisse toke ende.
In stede wherof forthwith I caught,
Hotte burnyng sighes, that sins haue brend,
My wretched hart almost to naught.
And sins that day, O Lord my life
The misery that it hath felt.
That nought hath had, but wo and strife,
And hotte desires my hart to melt.
O Lord how sodain was the change
From such a pleasant liberty?
The very thraldome semed strange:
But yet there was no remedy.
But I must yeld, and geue vp all,
And make my guide my chiest

[_]

chiefest

fo.
And in this wise became I thrall.
Lo loue and happe would haue it so.
I suffred wrong and helde my peace,
I gaue my teares good leaue to ronne:
And neuer would seke for redresse,
But hopt to liue as I begonne.
For what it was that might me ease,
He liued not that might it know.
Thus dranke I all mine owne disease:
And all alone bewailde my wo.
There was no sight that might mee please,
I fled from them that did reioyce.
And oft alone my hart to ease,
I would bewayle with wofull voyce
My life, my state, my miserie,
And curse my selfe and all my dayes.
Thus wrought I with my fantasie,
And sought my helpe none other waies.
Saue sometime to my selfe alone,
When farre of was my helpe God wot:
Lowde would I cry: My life is gone,
My dere, if that ye helpe me not.

S3r

Then wisht I streight, that death might end
These bitter panges, and all this grief.
For nought, methought, might it amend.
Thus in dispaire to haue relief,
I lingred forth: tyll I was brought
With pining in so piteous case:
That all, that saw me, sayd, methought:
Lo, death is painted in his face.
I went no where: but by the way
I saw some sight before mine eyes:
That made me sigh, and oft times say:
My life, alas I thee despyse.
This lasted well a yere, and more:
Which no wight knew, but onely I:
So that my life was nere forlore:
And I dispaired vtterly.
Tyll on a day, as fortune would:
(For that, that shalbe, nedes must fall)
I sat me down, as though I should
Haue ended then my lyfe, and all.
And as I sat to wryte my plaint,
Meaning to shew my great vnrest:
With quaking hand, and hart full faint,
Amid my plaintes, among the rest,
I wrote with ynk, and bitter teares:
I am not myne, I am not mine:
Behold my lyfe, away that weares:
And if I dye the losse is thyne.
Herewith a litle hope I caught:
That for a whyle my life did stay.
But in effect, all was for naught.
Thus liued I styll: tyll on a day,
As I sat staring on those eyes:
I meane, those eyes, that first me bound:
My inward thought tho cryed: Aryse:
Lo, mercy where it may be found.
And therewithall I drew me nere:
With feble hart, and at a braide,
(But it was softly in her eare)
Mercy, Madame, was all, I sayd.
But wo was me, when it was tolde.
For therewithall fainted my breath.

S3v

And I sate still for to beholde,
And heare the iudgement of my death.
But loue nor Hap would not consent,
To end me then, but welaway:
There gaue me blisse: that I repent
To thinke I liue to see this day.
For after this I playned still
So long, and in so piteous wise:
That I my wish had at my will
Graunted, as I would it deuise.
But Lord who euer heard, or knew
Of halfe the iove that I felt than?
Or who can thinke it may be true,
That so much blisse had euer man?
Lo, fortune thus set me aloft:
And more my sorowes to releue,
Of pleasant ioyes I tasted oft:
As much as loue or happe might geue.
The sorowes olde, I felt before
About my hart, were driuen thence:
And for eche greefe, I felt afore,
I had a blisse in recompence.
Then thought I all the time well spent:
That I in plaint had spent so long.
So was I with my life content:
That to my self I sayd among.
Sins thou art ridde of all thine yll:
To showe thy ioyes set forth thy voyce.
And sins thou hast thy wish at will:
My happy hart, reioyce, reioyce.
Thus felt I ioyes a great deale mo,
Then by my song may well be tolde:
And thinkyng on my passed wo,
My blisse did double many folde.
And thus I thought with mannes blood,
Such blisse might not be bought to deare.
In such estate my ioyes then stode:
That of a change I had no feare.
But why sing I so long of blisse?
It lasteth not, that will away,
Let me therfore bewaile the misse:
And sing the cause of my decay.

S4r

Yet all this while there liued none,
That led his life more pleasantly:
Nor vnder hap there was uot

[_]

not

one,
Me thought, so well at ease, as I.
But O blinde ioye, who may thee trust?
For no estate thou canst assure?
Thy faithfull vowes proue all vniust:
Thy faire behestes be full vnsure.
Good proufe by me: that but of late
Not fully twenty dayes ago:
Which thought my life was in such state:
That nought might worke my hart this wo.
Yet hath the enemy of my ease,
Mishappe I meane, that wretched wight:
Now when my life did moste me please:
Deuised me such cruel spight.
That from the hiest place of all,
As to the pleasyng of my thought,
Downe to the deepest am I fall,
And to my helpe auaileth nought,
Lo, thus are all my ioyes gone:
And I am brought from happinesse,
Continually to waile, and mone.
Lo, such is fortunes stablenesse.
In welth I thought such suretie,
That pleasure should haue ended neuer.
But now (alas) aduersitie,
Doth make my singyng cease for euer.
O brittle ioye, O slidyng blisse,
O fraile pleasure, O welth vnstable:
Who feles thee most, he shall not misse
At length to be made miserable.
For all must end as doth my blisse:
There is none other certentie.
And at the end the worst is his,
That most hath knowen prosperitie.
For he that neuer blisse assaied,
May well away with wretchednesse:
But he shall finde that hath it sayd,
A paine to part from pleasantnesse:
As I doe now, for er I knew
What pleasure was: I felt no griefe,

S4v

Like vnto this, and it is true,
That blisse hath brought me all this mischiefe.
But yet I haue not songen, how
This mischiefe came: but I intend
With wofull voice to sing it now:
And therwithall I make an end.
But Lord, now that it is begoon,
I feele, my sprites are vexed sore.
Oh, geue me breath till this be done:
And after let me liue no more,
Alas, the enmy of my life,
The ender of all pleasantnesse:
Alas, he bringeth all this strife,
And causeth all this wretchednesse.
For in the middes of all the welth,
That brought my hart to happinesse:
This wicked death he came by stelthe,
And robde me of my ioyfulnesse.
He came, when that I little thought
Of ought, that might me vexe so sore:
And sodenly he brought to nought
My pleasantnesse for euermore,
He slew my ioye (alas, the wretch)
He slew my ioye, or I was ware:
And now (alas) no might may stretch
To set an end to my great care.
For by this cursed deadly stroke,
My blisse is lost, and I forlore:
And no help may the losse reuoke:
For lost it is for euermore.
And closed vp are those faire eyes,
That gaue me first the signe of grace:
My faire swete foes, myne enemies,
And earth dothe hide her pleasant face.
The loke which did my life vpholde:
And all my sorowes did confounde:
With which more blisse then may be tolde:
Alas, now lieth it vnder ground.
But cease, for I will syng no more:
Since that my harme hath no redresse:
But as a wretche for euermore,
My life will waste with wretchednesse.

T1r

And ending thys my wofull song,
Now that it ended is and past:
I wold my life were but as long:
And that this word might be my last.
For lothsome is that life (men saye)
That liketh not the liuers minde:
Lo, thus I seke myne owne decaye,
And will, till that I may it finde

University of Virginia Library

Sythe singyng gladdeth