THE LOUERS SOROWFULL STATE MAKETH HIM WRITE
SOROWFULL SONGES, BUT (SOUCHE,) HIS LOUE MAY
MARUEIL no more altho
The songs, I sing do mone;
For other life then wo,
I neuer proued none.
And in my hart also,
Is grauen with letters depe,
A thousand sighes and mo
A flood of teares to wepe.
How many a man in smart,
Find a matter to rejoyce!
How many a moorning hart,
Sent forth a plesant voice:
Play who so can that part,
Nedes must in me appere,
How fortune ouerthwart
Doth cause my moorning chere,
Perdy there is no man
If he saw neuer sight,
That perfitly tell can,
The nature of the light.
B b
Alas, how shoulde I than,
That never tast but sowre,
But do as I began,
Continually to lowre.
But yet parchance some chance,
May chance to change my tune,
And when (Souch) chance doth chance,
Then shall I thanke fortune.
And if I have (Souch) chance,
Perchance or it be long,
For (Souch) a pleasant chance,
To sing some pleasant song.
THE LOUER COMPLAINETH HIMSELF FORSAKEN.
WHERE shall I haue at mine owne will,
Teares to complaine? where shal I fet
Such sighes, that I may sigh my fill,
And then again my plaintes repete?
For though my plaint shall have none end,
My teares cannot suffise my woe
To mone my harme, have I no frend,
For fortunes frend, is mishaps foe.
Comfort (God wot) els haue I none,
But in the wind to wast my wordes;
Nought moueth you my dedly mone,
But still you turn it into bordes:
I speak not now to moue your heart,
That you should rue vpon my pain;
The sentence geuen may not reuert,
I know such labour were but vain.
But sins that I for you (my dere)
Have lost that thing, that was my best,
A right small losse it must appere
To lese these wordes, and all the rest.
But though they sparkle in the winde,
Yet shall they shew your falshed faith,
Which is returned to his kinde;
For like to like, the prouerbe saith.
Fortune, and you did me auance,
Me thought I swam, and could not drown;
Happiest of al; but my mischance,
Did lift me vp, to throw me down.
And you with her, of cruelnesse,
Did set your foote upon my necke,
Me, and my welfare to oppresse;
Without offence your heart to wreke.
Where are your pleasant wordes (alas)
Where is your faith? your stedfastnesse?
There is no more but al doth passe,
And I am left all comfortlesse.
But sins so much it doth you greue,
And also me my wretched life,
Have here my troth: nought shall releue,
But death alone, my wretched strife.
Therfore farewel, my life, my death,
My gaine, my losse, my salue, my sore,
Farewell also, with you my breath,
For I am gone for evermore.
OF HIS LOUE THAT PRICKED HER FINGER WITH A
SHE sate, and sowed, that hath done me the wrong,
Wherof I plain, and haue done many a day,
And, whilst she heard my plaint, in piteous song,
She wisht my hart the sampler, that it lay.
The blind maister, whom I have serued so long,
Grudging to heare that he did heare her say,
Made her own weapon do her finger blede,
To feele, if pricking were so good indede.
WHAT man hath hearde such cruelty before?
That, when my plaint remembred her my wo,
That caused it, she cruell more and more,
Wished eche stiche as she did sit and sow,
Had prickt my hart, for to encrease my sore;
And as I thinke, she thought it had been so,
For as she thought, this is his hart in dede,
She pricked hard, and made her self to blede.
REQUEST TO CUPIDE FOR REUENGE OF HIS VNKINDE
BEHOLD, Loue, thy power how she despiseth,
My greuous pain how little she regardeth :
The solemne othe wherof she takes no cure,
Broken she hath, and yet she bydeth sure.
Right at her ease, and little thee she dredeth ;
Weaponed thou art, and she vnarmed sitteth;
To the disdainfull, all her life she leadeth
To me spitefull, without iust cause or measure:
Behold Loue, how proudly she triumpheth.
I am in hold, but if the pitie meueth,
Go, bend thy bow, that stony hartes breaketh,
And with some stroke, reuenge the great displea-
Of thee, and him that sorow doth endure,
And as his lord thee lowly here entreateth.
COMPLAINT FOR TRUE LOUE VNREQUITED.
WHAT vaileth troth? or by it, to take pain?
To striue by stedfastness for to attain
How to be iust, and flee from doublenesse?
Since all alike, where ruleth craftinesse,
Rewarded is both crafty, false, and plain.
Soonest he spedes, that most can lye and faine.
True meaning hart is had in hye disdaine.
Against deceit and cloked doublenesse,
What vaileth trouth, or parfit stedfastnesse ?
Deceiued is he, by false and craftie train,
That meanes no gile, and faithfull doth remaine
Within the trap, without help or redresse.
But for to love, lo, such a sterne maistresse,
Where crueltie dwelles, alas, it were in vain.
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