a lovers complait

19 1 0
                                    

the biggest one like a story

FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded

A plaintful story from a sistering vale,

My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,

And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,

Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,

Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,

Which fortified her visage from the sun,

Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw

The carcass of beauty spent and done:

Time had not scythed all that youth begun,

Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,

Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,

Which on it had conceited characters,

Laundering the silken figures in the brine

That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,

And often reading what contents it bears;

As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,

In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride,

As they did battery to the spheres intend;

Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied

To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend

Their view right on; anon their gazes lend

To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd,

The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.

Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,

Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride

For some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat,

Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;

Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,

And true to bondage would not break from thence,

Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew

Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,

Which one by one she in a river threw,

Upon whose weeping margent she was set;

Like usury, applying wet to wet,

Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall

Where want cries some, but where excess begs all.

Of folded schedules had she many a one,

Which she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood;

Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone

Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;

Found yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood,

poem loverzWhere stories live. Discover now