Classic Poem

Verses of complaint, devised for a well meaning lover, to move his maistresse to pitie

Now cease, good lady, cease to weave my further woe,
Where scorne hath worne my joyes to eb, let pitie force them flowe.
[To] you, I sue and serve, to you I waile and weepe,
[For] you my restlesse eyes doth watch, when other men do sleepe.
To you my sighes I send, which makes my heart to bleede,
For you my teares, like Tiber streames, from dazeled eyes proceede.
No wealth I do enjoy, but that I wish you part,
No griefe doth gaule your daintie minde, but I do ease your smart.
To rowle in bagges of golde in choice I would detest,
In faith, for to injoy your love, and harbour where you rest.
If you I might injoy, I, now forworne with woe,
To former joyes would be restorde, in spite of him sayes noe:
No torment then should vere, or nippe my heavie hart;
All gulfes of griefe shall soone be damde which drownes my joyes in smart:
Of age I should triumphe, and death I would defie,
And fortunes force I could withstand, for all her crueltie.
In you to save or spill, in you to make or marre,
In you it restes to end my woes, or cause my further care.
Twixt life and death I stand, twixt hope and deepe despaire,
Till loving lines for pyning woe returnes a luckie share.

Verses of complaint, devised for a well meaning lover, to move his maistresse to pitie

Now cease, good lady, cease to weave my further woe,
Where scorne hath worne my joyes to eb, let pitie force them flowe.
[To] you, I sue and serve, to you I waile and weepe,
[For] you my restlesse eyes doth watch, when other men do sleepe.
To you my sighes I send, which makes my heart to bleede,
For you my teares, like Tiber streames, from dazeled eyes proceede.
No wealth I do enjoy, but that I wish you part,
No griefe doth gaule your daintie minde, but I do ease your smart.
To rowle in bagges of golde in choice I would detest,
In faith, for to injoy your love, and harbour where you rest.
If you I might injoy, I, now forworne with woe,
To former joyes would be restorde, in spite of him sayes noe:
No torment then should vere, or nippe my heavie hart;
All gulfes of griefe shall soone be damde which drownes my joyes in smart:
Of age I should triumphe, and death I would defie,
And fortunes force I could withstand, for all her crueltie.
In you to save or spill, in you to make or marre,
In you it restes to end my woes, or cause my further care.
Twixt life and death I stand, twixt hope and deepe despaire,
Till loving lines for pyning woe returnes a luckie share.