Your roundels fresh to heare a doolefull verse
Of Rosalend, (who knowes not Rosalend?)
That Colin made, ylke can I you rehearse.
Per. Now say it, Cuddie, as thou art a ladde:
With mery thing its good to medle sadde.
Wil. Fayth of my soule, thou shalt ycrouned be
In Colins stede, if thou this song areede:
For never thing on earth so pleaseth me
As him to heare, or matter of his deede.
Cud. Then listneth ech unto my heavy laye,
And tune your pypes as ruthful as ye may.
Wherein my plaints did oftentimes resound:
Ye carelesse byrds are privie to my cryes,
Which in your songs were wont to make a part:
Thou pleasaunt spring hast luld me oft a sleepe,
Whose streames my tricklinge teares did ofte augment.
‘Resort of people doth my greefs augment,
The walled townes do worke my greater woe:
The forest wide is fitter to resound
The hollow echo of my carefull cryes:
I hate the house, since thence my love did part,
Whose waylefull want debarres myne eyes from sleepe.
‘Let stremes of teares supply the place of sleepe:
Let all, that sweete is, voyd: and all that may augment
My doole drawe neare. More meete to wayle my woe
Bene the wild woddes, my sorrowes to resound,
Then bedde, or bowre, both which I fill with cryes,
When I them see so waist, and fynd no part
‘Of pleasure past. Here will I dwell apart
In gastfull grove therefore, till my last sleepe
Doe close mine eyes: so shall I not augment,
With sight of such a chaunge, my restlesse woe.
Helpe me, ye banefull byrds, whose shrieking sound
Ys signe of dreery death, my deadly cryes
‘Most ruthfully to tune. And as my cryes
(Which of my woe cannot bewray least part)
You heare all night, when nature craveth sleepe,
Increase, so let your yrksome yells augment.
Thus all the night in plaints, the daye in woe
I vowed have to wayst, till safe and sound
‘She home returne, whose voyces silver sound
To cheerefull songs can chaunge my cherelesse cryes.
Hence with the nightingale will I take part,
That blessed byrd, that spends her time of sleepe
In songs and plaintive pleas, the more taugment
The memory of hys misdeede, that bred her woe.
‘And you that feele no woe, / when as the sound
Of these my nightly cryes / ye heare apart,
Let breake your sounder sleepe / and pitie augment.’
Per. O Colin, Colin, the shepheards joye,
How I admire ech turning of thy verse!
And Cuddie, fresh Cuddie, the liefest boye,
How dolefully his doole thou didst re-hearse!
Cud. Then blowe your pypes, shepheards, til you be at home:
The night nigheth fast, yts time to be gone.
~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
No comments:
Post a Comment