by William Alexander
In silent horrors here, where neuer mirth remaines,
I do retire my selfe apart, as rage and griefe constraines:
So may I sigh vnknowne, whil'st other comfort failes,
An infranchised citizen of solitarie vales;
Her priuiledge to plain, since nought but plaints can please,
My sad conceptions I disclose, diseased at my ease.
No barren pitie here my passions doth increase,
Nor no detracter here resorts, deriding my distresse:
But wandring through the world, a vagabonding guest,
Acquiring most contentment then when I am reft of rest.
Against those froward fates, that did my blisse controule,
I thunder forth a thousand threats in th'anguish of my soule.
And lo lunaticke-like do dash on euery shelfe,
And conuocate a court of cares for to condemne my selfe:
My fancies which in end time doth fantasticke try,
I figure forth essentially in all the obiects by:
In euery corner where my recklesse eye repaires,
I reade great volumes of mishaps, memorials of despaires:
All things that I behold, vpbraid me my estate,
And oft I blush within my brest, asham'd of my conceit.
Those branches broken downe with mercie-wanting winds,
Obiect me my deiected state, that greater fury finds:
Their winter-beaten weed disperst vpon the plaine,
Are like to my renounced hopes, all scattred with disdaine.
Lo wondring at my state the strongest torrent stayes,
And turning and returning oft, would scorne my crooked wayes.
In end I find my fate ouer all before my face,
Enregistered eternally in th'annales of disgrace.
Those crosses out of count might make the rockes to riue,
That this small remanent of life for to extinguish striue:
And yet my rockie heart so hardned with mishaps,
Now by no meanes can be commou'd, not with Ioues thunder claps:
But in huge woes inuolu'd with intricating art,
Surcharg'd with sorrowes I succomb and senslesly do smart;
And in this labyrinth exil'd from all repose,
I consecrate this cursed corpes a sacrifice to woes:
Whil'st many a furious plaint my smoaking breast shall breath,
Ecclips'd with many a cloudie thought, aggrieu'd vnto the death:
With th'eccho plac'd beside some solitary sourse,
Disastrous accidents shall be the ground of our discourse.
Her maimed words shal shew how my hurt hart half dies,
Consum'd with corrosiues of care, caractred in mine eyes.
My Muse shall now no more transported with respects,
Exalt that euill deseruing one as fancie still directs:
Nor yet no partiall pen shall spot her spotlesse fame,
Vnhonestly dishonoring an honorable name.
But I shall sadly sing, too tragickly inclin'd,
Some subiect sympathizing with my melancholious mind.
Nor will I more describe my dayly deadly strife,
My publike wrongs, my priuate woes, mislucks in loue and life:
That would but vexe the world for to extend my toiles,
In painting forth particularly my many formes of foiles.
No, none in speciall I purpose to bewray,
But one as all, and all as one, I mind to mourne for ay.
For being iustly weigh'd, the least that I lament,
Deserues indeed to be bewail'd, til th'vse of th'eyes be spent;
And since I should the least perpetually deplore,
The most again though maruellous, can be bemoan'd no more.
Last updated January 14, 2019