He sorrowes the long absence of his Ladie. P.

NOw once againe (my Muse) renue the woes
Which earst thou hast in doolefull dittie soong,
For greater cause of sorrow not arose
To mée at all, than now of late is sproong:
As you shall heare in sad and solemne Verse,
A wofull Wight his haplesse hap rehearse,
Come (Clio) come with pensiue Pen in hande
And cause thy sisters chaunge their chéereful voice,
Ye furies fell that lurcke in Plutos lande,
Come skip to Skies, and raise a doolefull noice:
Helpe to lament the Louers wofull chaunce,
And let Alecto leade the lothsome daunce.
All ye that Ladies are of Lymbo Lake
With hissing haire, and Snakie bush bedect,
Your beddes of stéele and dankish Dennes forsal
And Stix with stinking Sulpher all infect:
Doe what you may to ayde my carefull Quill,
And helpe to ring a Louers latter knill.
And time (I trow) sith she from hence is fled
Who was the guide and giuer of my breath,
By whome I was with wished pleasure fed
And haue escapte the ruthlesse hande of death:
Who was the Key and Cable of my life,
That made me scape Charybdis carefull clife.
A Starre whereby to steare my bodies Bark,
And ship of soule to shoare in safetie bring,
To quite my Corse from painefull pining cark,
And fierie force of craftie Cupids sting:
Euen she that me from Syllas shelfe did shroude,
That light is lost, that Lodestarre vnder cloude.
Whose absence bréedes the tempest I sustaine,
And makes my thoughts so cloudie black to bae,
And brackish teares from swolen eies to raine,
And churlish gale of surging sighes to flée:
That Ancor scarce ne harbour I may haue
From deepe dispaire my broken Ship to saue.
The Rubie from the Ring is rest I finde,
The foile appéeres that vnderneath was set:
The Saint is gone, the Shrine is left behinde,
The Fish is scapte, and here remaines the Net:
That other choise for me is none but this,
To waile the want of hir that is my blisse.
I cursse the Wight that causde hir hence to go,
I hate the Horse that hence hir Corse conuaide,
The Bit, the Saddle all I cursse aroe,
And ought that else might this hir iourney staide:
I cursse the place where she doth now solourne,
And that whereto she mindes to shape retourne.
My mouth, that kist hir not before she went,
Mine cies, that did not séeke to sée hir face,
My head, that it no matter did inuent,
My hande, that it in Paper did not place:
My feete, that they refusde to trauell tho,
My legges I cursse that were so loth to go.
My tongue, that it to parle did then procure
To vtter all my close and couert minde,
To hir who long hath had my woundes in cure,
In whome such ruth and mercie I did finde:
My hart I cursse, that sought not to bewray
It selfe to hir or ere she went hir way.
And last my selfe and erie thing beside,
My life, my limmes, my carrion Corse I cursse:
Saue hir for whome these torments I abide,
That of my lyfe is onely well and sourse:
Ioue shroude hir salfe, and kéepe hir from annoy,
And sende hir soone to make returne with ioy.