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Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares,
That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell,
ANOTHER OF THE SAME.
ILENCE augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth rage,
Stald are my thoughts, which lov'd, and lost, the wonder of our age,
Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost
Enrag'de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.
Hard harted mindes relent, and rigors teares abound, And envie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found;
Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath slaine her knight;
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds delight.
Place pensive wailes his fall whose presence was her
Time crieth out, my ebbe is come; his life was my
Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her
Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry
He was (wo worth that word!) to ech well thinking minde
A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose vertue ever
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.
He, onely like himselfe, was second unto none, Whose deth, (though life) we rue, and wrong, and al in vain do mone;
Their losse, not him, waile they, that fill the world with cries:
Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.
Now sinke of sorrow I, who live; the more the wrong; Who wishing death, whom deth denies, whose thred is al to long,
Who tied to wretched life, who lookes for no reliefe, Must spend my ever dying daies in never ending griefe.
Harts ease and onely I, like parallels, run on, Whose equall length keep equall bredth, and never meet in one;
Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes
Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so well.
Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking
Farewell, sometimes enjoyed joy; eclipsed are thy
Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings foorth;
And farewel friendships sacred league, uniting minds of woorth!
And farewell, mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes, And all sports which for lives restore varietie assignes; Let all, that sweete is, voyd; in me no mirth may dwell,
Philip, the cause of all this woe, my lives content, farewell!
Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes not how to kill,
Go, seeke that haples tombe; which if ye hap to finde, Salute the stones that keep the lims that held so good
TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFULL
SIR ROBART NEEDHAM, KNIGHT.
IR, to gratulate your safe return from Ireland I had nothing so readie, nor thought any thing so meete, as these sweete conceited Sonets, the deede of that wel-deserving gentleman, maister Edmond Spenser: whose name sufficiently warranting the worthinesse of the work, I do more confidently presume to publish it in his absence, under your name, to whom (in my poore opinion) the patronage therof doth in some respectes properly appertaine. For, besides your judgement and delighte in learned poesie, this gentle Muse, for her former perfection long wished for in Englande, nowe at the length crossing the Seas in your happy companye (though to your selfe unknowne) seemeth to make choyse of you, as meetest to give her deserved countenaunce after her retourne: entertaine her then (Right worshipfull) in sorte best beseeming your gentle minde and her merite, and take in worth my good will herein, who seeke no more but to shew my selfe yours in all dutifull affection.