I laugh sometimes with little lust,
So jest I oft and feel no joy;
Mine eye is builded all on trust,
And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy.
I live and lack, I lack and have;
I have and miss the thing I crave.
Then like the lark that passed the night
In heavy sleep with cares oppressed;
Yet when she spies the pleasant light,
She sends sweet notes from out her breast;
So sing I now because I think
How joys approach when sorrows shrink.
And as fair Philomene again
Can watch and sing when others sleep;
And taketh pleasure in her pain,
To wray the woe that makes her weep;
So sing I now for to bewray
The loathsome life I lead alway.
The which to thee, dear wench, I write,
Thou know'st my mirth but not my moan;
I pray God grant thee deep delight,
To live in joys when I am gone.
I cannot live; it will not be:
I die to think to part from thee.
George Gascoigne.
TO PHYLLIS, THE FAIR SHEPHERDESS.
My Phyllis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her:
And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds
Her rising still to honour.
My Phyllis hath prime feathered flowers
That smile when she treads on them:
And Phyllis hath a gallant flock
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phyllis hath too hard a heart,
Alas, that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert
Nor peace to those that crave it.
Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on,
Pray her regard my moan!
Sweet birds, when you sing to her,
To yield some pity woo her!
Sweet flowers, that she treads on,
Tell her, her beauty dreads one;
And if in life her love she'll not agree me,
Pray her before I die, she will come see me.