Complaint of the long absence of his Loue vpon the first acquaintance

O Cursed, cruell, canckred Chaunce,
O Fortune full of spight,
Why hast thou so on sodaine rest
from mée my chiefe delight?
What glorie shalt thou gaine perdie
or purchace by the rage?
This is no Conquest to be callde,
wherefore thy wrath asswage.
To soone eclipsed was my ioy,
my dolors grow to fast:
For want of hir that is my life,
my life it can not last.
Is this thy fickle kind so soone
to hoise a man to ioy,
And ere he touch the top of blisse
to bréede him such anoy?
Nowe doe I plaine perceiue and sée
that Poets faine not all,
For churlish Chaunce is counted blinde
and full of filthy Gall.
I thought there had béene no such Dame
ne Goddesse on a whéele:
But now too well I know hir kinde,
too soone hir force I féele.
And that which doth augment my smart
and maketh more my wo,
Is, for I felt a sodaine ioy
where now this griefe doth grow.
If thou hadst ment (vnhappie Hap)
thus to haue nipt my ioy,
Why didst thou show a smyling chéere
that shouldst haue lookte acoy?
For griefes doe nothing grudge at all
but where was blisse before:
None wailes the want of wealth so much
as he that had the store.
Not he that neuer saw the Sunne
complaines for lack of light,
But such as saw his golden gleames
and knew his chéerefull might.
Too late I learne through spitefull chaunce
that ioy is mixt with wo,
And eche good hap hath hate in hoorde,
the course of things is so.
So Poyson lurcks in Suger swéete,
the Hooke so hides the bayte:
Euen so in gréene and pleasant grasse
the Serpent lies in wayte.
Vlysses wife I learne at last
thy sorrow and distresse,
In absence of thy lingring Loue,
that should thy woes redresse.
Great was your griefe (ye Gréekish Girlles)
whilste stately Troie stood,
And kept your husbands from your laps
in perill of their blood.
All ye therefore that haue assayde
what torments lack procures
Of that you loue, lament my lack
which ouerlong endures.
Ye Winds transport my soking sighes
to my new chosen Friende,
So may my sorrow swage perhaps
and dréerie state haue ende.
Ye Sighes make true report of teares,
that so beraine my brest,
As Helens husbands neuer were
for treason of his Guest.
If thou (my Letter) maist attaine
the place of hir abode,
Doe thou, as Herauld of the hart,
my sorrowes quite vnlode.
In thée as in a Myrronr cléere
or Christall may she vewe
My pangues, my paynes, my sighes and teares
which Tigers could but rewe.
There shall shée see my secret parts
encombred all with mone,
My fainting lims, my vapord eien
with hart as colde as stone.
I know shée can but rue my case
when thou presents my sute,
Wherefore play thou thy part so well
that I may reape the frute.
And if (when shée hath read thée through)
shée place thée in hir lap,
Then chaunge thy chéere thy Maister hath
his long desired hap.