Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Vol. VIII

Come here! my confidential Secretary

Of the complaints in which my days are rife,

Paper,-whereon I gar my griefs o'erflow.

Tell we, we twain, Unreasons which in life

Deal me inexorable, contrary

Destinies surd to prayer and tearful woe.

Dash we some water-drops on muchel lowe,

Fire we with outcries storm of rage so rare

That shall be strange to mortal memory.

Such misery tell we

To God and Man, and eke, in fine, to air,

Whereto so many times did I confide

My tale and vainly told as I now tell;

But e'en as error was my birthtide-lot,

That this be one of many doubt I not.

And as to hit the butt so far I fail

E'en if I sinnèd her cease they to chide:

Within mine only Refuge will I 'bide

To speak and faultless sin with free intent.

Sad he so scanty mercies must content!

Long I've unlearnt me that complaint of dole

Brings cure of dolours; but a wight in pain

To greet is forcèd an the grief be great.

I will outgreet; but weak my voice and vain

To express the sorrows which oppress my soul;

For nor with greeting shall my dole abate.

Who then shall grant me, to relieve my weight

Of sorrow, flowing tears and infinite sighs

Equal those miseries my Sprite o'erpower?

But who at any hour,

Can measure miseries with his tears or cries?

I'll tell, in fine, the love for me design'd

By wrath and woe and all their sovenance;

For other dole hath qualities harder, sterner.

Draw near and hear me each despairing Learner!

And fly the many fed on Esperance

Or wights who fancy Hope will prove her kind;

For Love and Fortune willed, with single mind,

To leave them hopeful, so they comprehend

What measure of unweal in hand they hend.

When fro' man's primal grave, the mother's womb,

New eyes on earth I oped, my hapless star

To mar my Fortunes 'gan his will enforce;

And freedom (Free-will given me) to debar:

I learnt a thousand times it was my doom.

To know the Better and to work the Worse:

Then with conforming tormentize to curse

My course of coming years, when cast I round

A boyish eye-glance with a gentle zest,

It was my Star's behest

A Boy born blind should deal me life-long wound.

Infantine tear-drops wellèd out the deep

With vague enamoured longings, nameless pine:

My wailing accents fro' my cradle-stound

Already sounded me love-sighing sound.

Thus age and destiny had like design:

For when, peraunter, rocking me to sleep

They sung me Love-songs wherein lovers weep,

Attonce by Nature's will asleep I fell,

So Melancholy witcht me with her spell!