The sonne hath twyse brought forthe the tender grene,
And cladd the yerthe in livelye lustynes;
Ones have the wyndes the trees dispoyled clene,
And now agayne begynnes their cruelnes,
Sins I have hidd under my brest the harme
That never shall recover helthfulnes.
The wynters hurt recovers with the warme;
The perched grene restored is with shade:
What warmth, alas, may sarve for to disarme
The froosyn hart that my inflame hath made?
What colde agayne is hable to restore
My freshe grene yeres that wither thus and faade?
Alas, I see nothinge to hurt so sore
But tyme somtyme reduceth a retourne;
Yet tyme my harme increseth more and more,
And semes to have my cure allwayes in skorne.
Straunge kynd of death, in lief that I doo trye:
At hand to melt, farr of in flame to bourne;
And like as time list to my cure aply,
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse.
Eche thing alive that sees the heaven with eye
With cloke of night maye cover and excuse
Him self from travaile of the dayes unrest,
Save I, alas, against all others use,
That then sturre upp the torment of my brest
To curse eche starr as cawser of my faat.
And when the sonne hath eke the darke represt
And brought the daie, it doth nothing abaat
The travaile of my endles smart and payne.
For then, as one that hath the light in haat,
I wishe for night, more covertlye to playne
And me withdrawe from everie haunted place,
Lest in my chere my chaunce should pere to playne;
And with my mynd I measure paas by paas
To seke that place where I my self hadd lost,
That daye that I was tangled in that laase,
In seming slacke that knytteth ever most;
But never yet the trayvaile of my thought
Of better state could catche a cawse to bost.
For yf I fynde somtyme that I have sought,
Those starres by whome I trusted of the port,
My sayles do fall, and I advaunce right nought,
As anchord fast; my sprites do all resort
To stand atgaas, and sinke in more and more
The deadlye harme which she doth take in sport.
Loo, yf I seke, how I do fynd my sore!
And yf I flye, I carrey with me still
The venymd shaft which dothe his force restore
By hast of flight. And I maye playne my fill
Unto my self, oneles this carefull song
Prynt in your hert some percell of my will.
For I, alas, in sylence all to long
Of myne old hurt yet fele the wound but grene.
Rue on my lief, or elles your crewell wrong
Shall well appeare, and by my deth be sene.
---
Descripcion of the restlesse state of a louer, with sute to his ladie, to rue on his diyng hart
The sonne hath twise brought furth his tender grene,
And clad the earth in liuely lustinesse:
Ones haue the windes the trees despoiled clene,
And new again begins their cruelnesse,
Since I haue hid vnder my brest the harm
That neuer shall recouer healthfulnesse.
The winters hurt recouers with the warm:
The parched grene restored is with shade.
What warmth (alas) may serue for to disarm
The frosen hart that mine in flame hath made?
What colde againe is able to restore
My fresh grene yeares, that wither thus and fade?
Alas, I se, nothing hath hurt so sore,
But time in time reduceth a returne:
In time my harm increaseth more and more,
And semes to haue my cure alwaies in scorne.
Strange kindes of death, in life that I doe trie,
At hand to melt, farre of in flame to burne.
And like as time list to my cure aply,
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse.
All thing aliue, that seeth the heauens with eye,
With cloke of night may couer, and excuse
It self from trauail of the dayes vnrest,
Saue I, alas, against all others vse,
That then stirre vp the tormentes of my brest,
And curse eche sterre as causer of my fate.
And when the sonne hath eke the dark opprest,
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The trauailes of mine endles smart and payn,
For then, as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night, more couertly to playn,
And me withdraw from euery haunted place,
Lest by my chere my chance appere to playn:
And in my minde I measure pace by pace,
To seke the place where I my self had lost,
That day that I was tangled in the lace,
In semyng slack that knitteth euer most:
But neuer yet the trallaile of my thought
Of better state coulde catche a cause to bost.
For if I found sometime that I haue sought,
Those sterres by whome I trusted of the porte,
My sayles doe fall, and I aduance right nought,
As ankerd fast, my spretes doe all resorte
To stande agazed, and sinke in more and more
The deadly harme which she dothe take in sport.
Lo, if I seke, how I doe finde my sore:
And yf I flee I carie with me still
The venomde shaft, whiche dothe his force restore
By hast of flight, and I may plaine my fill
Vnto my selfe, vnlesse this carefull song
Printe in your harte some parcell of my tene
For I, alas, in silence all to long
Of mynr olde hurte yet fele the wounde but grene.
Rue of my life: or els your cruell wronge
Shall well appere, and by my death be sene.