Poem VII

“Henceforth mine eyes shall never more beholdFaire thing on earth, ne feed on false delightOf ought that framed is of mortall mould,Sith that my fairest flower is faded quight;For all I see is vaine and transitorie,Ne will be held in any stedfast plight,But in a moment loose their grace and glorie.

“And ye, fond Men! on Fortunes wheele that ride,Or in ought under heaven repose assurance,Be it riches, beautie, or honours pride,Be sure that they shall have no long endurance,But ere ye be aware will flit away;For nought of them is yours, but th’only usanceOf a small time, which none ascertains may.

“And ye, true Lovers! whom desastrous chaunce,Hath farre exiled from your ladies grace,To mourne in sorrow and sad sufferauncc,When ye doe heare me in that desert placeLamenting loud my Daphnes elegie,Helpe me to waile my miserable case,And when life parts vouchsafe to close mine eye.

“And ye, more happie Lovers! which enioyThe presence of your dearest loves delight,“When ye doe heare my sorrowfull annoy,Yet pittie me in your empassiond spright,And thinke that such mishap as chaunst to meMay happen unto the most happiest wight;For all mens states alike unstedfast be.

“And ye, ray fellow Shepheards! which do feedYour carelesse flocks on hils and open plaines,With better fortune than did me succeed,Remember yet my undeserved paines;And when ye heare that I am dead or slaine,Lament my lot, and tell your fellow-swainesThat sad Aleyon dyde in lifes disdaine.

“And ye, faire Damsels! shepheards deare delights,That with your loves do their rude hearts possesse,When as my hearse shall happen to your sightes,Vouchsafe to deck the same with cyparesse;And ever sprinckle brackish teares among,In pitie of my undeserv’d distresse,The which, I, wretch, endured have thus long.

“And ye, poore Pilgrims! that with restlesse toyleWearie your selves in wandring desart wayes,Till that you come where ye your vowes assoyle,When passing by ye reade these wofull layesOn my grave written, rue my Daphnes wrong,And mourne for me that languish out my dayes.Cease, Shepheard! cease, and end thy undersong.”

Thus when he ended had his heavie plaint,The heaviest plaint that ever I heard sound,His cheekes wext pale, and sprights began to faint,As if againe he would have fallen to ground;Which when I saw, I, stepping to him light,Amooved him out of his stonie swound,And gan him to recomfort as I might.

But he no waie recomforted would be,Nor suffer solace to approach him nie,But, casting up a sdeinfull eie at me,That in his traunce I would not let him lie,Did rend his haire, and beat his blubbred face,As one disposed wilfullie to die,That I sore griev’d to see his wretched case.

Tho when the pang was somewhat overpast,And the outragious passion nigh appeased,I him desyrde, sith daie was overcastAnd darke night fast approched, to be pleasedTo turne aside unto my cabinet,And staie with me, till he were better easedOf that strong stownd** which him so sore beset.

But by no meanes I could him win thereto,Ne longer him intreate with me to staie,But without taking leave he foorth did goeWith staggring pace and dismall looks dismay,As if that Death he in the face had seene,Or hellish hags had met upon the way:But what of him became I cannot weene.