The lamentation of a lover
Now have I found the waie, to weepe & wayle my fill,
Now can I ende my dolfull dayes, & so content my will.
The way to weepe inough, for such as list to wayle,
Is this: to go abord ye ship, where pleasure beareth sayle.
And there to marke the jestes, of every joyfull wight,
And with what winde and wave they fleet, to nourish their delight.
For as the striker Deare, that seeth his fellowes feede,
Amid the lustie [heard] (unhurt), & feeles himselfe to bleede
Or as the seely byrd, that with the Bolte is brusd,
And lieth aloofe among the leaves, of al hir pheares refusd,
And heares them sing full shrill, yet cannot she rejoyce,
Nor frame one warbling note to passe, out of hir mournfull voyce.
Even so I finde by proofe, that pleasure dubleth payne,
Unto a wretched wounded hart, which doth in woe, remaine.
I passe where pleasure is, I heare some sing for joye,
I see som laugh, som other daunce, in spight of darke anoy.
But out alas my mind, amends not by their myrth,
I deeme al pleasurs to be paine, that dwell above ye earth.
Such heavy humors feede, ye bloud that lendes me breath,
As mery medcins cannot serve, to keepe my corps from death.
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