Classic Poem

So feeble is the thread that doth the burden stay
Of my poor life, in heavy plight, that falleth in decay,
That but it have elsewhere some aid or some succours,
The running spindle of my fate anon shall end his course.
Since th'unhappy hour that did me to depart
From my sweet weal, one only hope hath stayed my life apart,
Which doth persuade such words unto my sorry mind:
" Maintain thyself, O woeful sprite, some better luck to find.
For though thou be deprived from thy desired sight,
Who can thee tell if thy return be for thy most delight
Or who can tell thy loss if thou once mayst recover?
Some pleasant hour thy woe may rape and thee defend and cover."
That is the trust that yet hath my life sustained,
And now, alas, I see'it faint and I by trust am trained.

The time doth fleet and I perceive th'hours how they bend
So fast that I have scant the space to mark my coming end.
Westward the sun from out th'east scant doth shew his light,
When in the west he hides him straight within the dark of night
And comes as fast where he began his path awry:
From east to west, from west to th'east, so doth his journey lie.
The life so short, so frail, that mortal men live here,
So great a weight, so heavy charge, the body that we bear
That, when I think upon the distance and the space
That doth so far divide me from my dear desired face,
I know not how t'attain the wings that I require
To lift my weight that it might fly to follow my desire.
Thus of that hope that doth my life something sustain,
Alas, I fear, and partly feel, full little doth remain.

Each place doth bring me grief where I do not behold
Those lively eyes which of my thoughts were wont the keys to hold.
Those thoughts were pleasant sweet whilst I enjoyed that grace.
My pleasure past, my present pain that I might well embrace!
But for because my want should more my woe increase,
In watch, in sleep, both day and night my will doth never cease
That thing to wish, whereof, since I did lose the sight,
I never saw the thing that might my faithful heart delight.
Th'uneasy life I lead doth teach me for to mete
The floods, the seas, the land and hills that doth them entremete
" Tween me'and those shining lights that wonted to clear
My dark pangs of cloudy thoughts as bright as Phoebus' sphere.
It teacheth me also what was my pleasant state,
The more to feel by such record how that my wealth doth bate.

If such record, alas, provoke th'inflamed mind
Which sprang that day that I did leave the best of me behind,
If love forget himself, by length of absence let,
Who doth me guide, O woeful wretch, unto this baited net
Where doth increase my care? Much better were for me,
As dumb as stone, all thing forgot, still absent for to be.
Alas, the clear crystal, the bright transparent glass,
Doth not bewray the colour hid which underneath it has,
As doth th'accumbered sprite thoughtful throes discover
Of fierce delight, of fervent love, that in our hearts we cover.
Out by these eyes it shew'th that ever more delight
In plaint and tears to seek redress, and that both day and night.

These new kinds of pleasures wherein most men rejoice,
To me they do redouble still of stormy sighs the voice,
For I am one of them whom plaint doth well content:
It sits me well mine absent wealth, me seems me to lament,
And with my tears for to'assay to charge mine eyes twain
Like as mine heart above the brink is fraughted full of pain.
And for because thereto of those fair eyes to treat
Do me provoke, I shall return, my plaint thus to repeat;
For there is nothing else that touches me so within
Where they rule all, and I alone naught but the case or skin.
Wherefore I do return to them as well or spring
From whom descends my mortal woe above all other thing.
So shall mine eyes in pain accompany mine heart
That were the guides that did it lead of love to feel the smart.

The crisped gold that doth surmount Apollo's pride;
The lively streams of pleasant stars that under it doth glide,
Wherein the beams of love doth still increase their heat
Which yet so far touch me so near in cold to make me sweat;
The wise and pleasant talk, so rare or else alone,
That did me give the courteous gift that such had never none —
Be far from me, alas. And every other thing
I might forbear with better will than that that did me bring,
With pleasant word and cheer, redress of lingered pain,
And wonted oft in kindled will to virtue me to train.
Thus am I driven to hear and hearken after news;
My comfort scant, my large desire in doubtful trust renews.

And yet, with more delight to moan my woeful case,
I must complain those hands, those arms that firmly do embrace
Me from myself and rule the stern of my poor life,
The sweet disdains, the pleasant wraths, and eke the lovely strife
That wonted well to tune, in temper just and meet,
The rage that oft did make me err by furor undiscreet —
All this is hid me fro with sharp and cragged hills.
At other will my long abode my deep despair fulfils.
But if my hope sometime rise up by some redress,
It stumbleth straight for feeble faint, my fear hath such excess.
Such is the sort of hope, the less for more desire,
Whereby I fear and yet I trust to see that I require:
The resting place of love where virtue lives and grows,
Where I desire my weary life also may take repose.

My song, thou shalt attain to find that pleasant place
Where she doth live by whom I live. May chance thee have this grace:
When she hath read and seen the dread wherein I sterve,
Between her breasts she shall thee put; there shall she thee reserve.
Then tell her that I come; she shall me shortly see;
If that for weight the body fail, this soul shall to her flee.