The anatomie of humors: vvritten by Simion Grahame

HIS PASSION ADO, When he was in Pilgrimage.

Quo fata vocant.

THou Phaeton thy firy course do'st end, And Cinthia thou with borrow'd light do'st shine These woods their silēthorrors do out-send And Vallies lowe their mistie Vapors shrine, Each liuely thing by Natures course doth goe To rest, saue I, that wander now in woe.

My plaints imparts these soli'd partes to fill, Weil'st roaring Rivers sends their sounds among, Each dreadful Den appeares to helpe me still, And yeelds sad Consorts to my sorr'wing song: How oft I breath this wofull word, alace, From Eccho I sad accents backe imbrace.

I will advance, what feares can me affraye? Since Dreades are all debar'd by high dispere, Like dark-nighs Ghost, I Vagabound astraye, With troubled spri't transported here and there, None like my selfe, but this my selfe alone, I martir'd Man be waile my matchlesse mone.

You flintie-stones take eares and eies to see This thundring-greif, with Earth-quake of my hart, That you may sigh and weep with miser-Mee, Melt at the tragick Commentes of my smart: Let these my teares that fall on you so oft, Make your obdurate hardnesse to be soft.

You liquid-drops, distilling from mine eies, In Christall you my second-selfe appeares; Patterne of paine, how do'st thou sympathize In visage wan, and Pilgrim's weede thou beares? And on these signes of miscontent-attire. Still doe I read, debard from my desire.

This hairie-Rob which doth my corps conteen, This Burden, and my rough-vnrased-heade A Winter and a Sommer haue I been In dangers great, still wandring in this weede; Loe thus the force of my disasters strange Hath made me make this vnacquainted-change.

I am dri'd vp with Dolors I endure, My hollowe eyes bewray's my restles night, My visage pale, self pittie doth procure, I see my soares deciphr'd in my sight, A Pilgrime still, my Oracle was so, And made my name, AH MISER MAN I GO.

Now doe I goe, and wander any way, No strange estate, no kinde of trau'ling toyles, No threatning Crosse, nor sorrow can me stay,

To search and seeke through all the sorts of soyles. So round about this Round still haue I run, Where I began, againe I haue begun.

In strangest parts, where stranger I may bee, An out-cast lost, and voyed of all releife, When saddest sight of sorrow I can see, They to my graue shall helpe to feede my greife: If Wonders selfe can wofull wonders showe, That sight, that part, that wonder I will knowe.

Thus doe I walke on forreigne fields forlorne, To carelesse Mee, all cares doe proue vnkinde, I doe the Fates of fickle Fortune scorne, Each crosse now breeds contentmēt to my minde Astonish of stupendious things by day, Nor howling sounds by night can me affray.

You stately Alpes surmounting in the skyes, The force of floods that frō your hights doun falles There mightie Clamors with my carefull Cryes, The Ecchoes voice from hollow Caues recalles: The snow-froz'n-cluds down frō your tops do thū∣der their voice with mine doth tear the air a sūder.

And Neptune thou when thy proud swelling wrath Frō gulphs to mountains mou'd with winters blast In anger great when thou didst threaten Death Oft in thy rage, thy raging stormes I past, And my salt teares increast my saltnes more, My sighs with winds made all thy bowels roare.

The spatious earth & groundlesse deep shall beare A true Record, of this my mart'ring mone; And if there were a world of worlds to heare, (When from this mortall Chaos I am gone) I dare approue my sorrow hath bin such, That all their witt's can not admire too much.

On the colde ground my Caytife-carcasse lyes, The leaueles-trees my Winter-blasted-bed: Noe Architecture but the Vap'rous skyes, Black-foggie-Mist, my weari'd corps hath cled, This loathsome Laire, on which I restles tourne Doth best befit Mee-Miser-man to mourne.

With open eies Nights-darknes I disdaine, On my Cros'd-brest I Crosse my Crossed armes; And when repose seekes to prevent my paine, Squadrons of Cares doe sound their fresh alarmes So in my sleep (the Image of pale-Death) These sighing words with burthē-brus'd I breath

I ever rowl'd my Barge against the streame, I scal'd those steppes that Fortune did me frame, I Conquer'd, which impossible did seeme, I, haples I, once happie I became: Now sweetest joy is turn'd to bitter gall, The higher vp, the greater was my fall.

What passing Follies are in high Estates, Whose foolish hopes giues promise to aspire: Self-flatt'rie still doth maske the feare of fates,

Till vnawars deceiu'd in sought desire: This breeds dispare, thē force of Fortunes change Sett's high Estates in dread and perrill strange.

There secret grudge, Envie and Treason dwelles, There Justice lies, in Dole-bewraying weede: There flyding Time with alt'ring feates still telles The great Attempts ambitious mindes doe breed: They who haue most, stil hunts for more & more They most desire that most ar choak'd with store.

Henceforth will I forsake Terrestiall Toyes, Which are nought else but shawdowes of deceat, What cover'd danger is in earthly joyes, When vilde Envie, triumphes on each Estate. Thou Traytour Time, thy Treason doth betray, And makes youths Spring in florish faire decay.

What's in Experience which I haue not sought, All (in that All) my will I did advance, At highest rate, all these my witts are bought In Fortunes-Lottrie, I haue try'd my Chance, So what I haue, I haue it not by showe, But by Experience which I truely knowe.

Long haue I searcht, and now at last I finde Eye-pleasing Calmes the tempest doth obscure, When I in glory of my prosperous winde, With white-sweld-sayles on gentle seas secure, And when I thoght my loadstar shinde most faire Ev'n then my hopes made shipwrack on dispaire

My sight is dark, whil'st I am over-throwne, Poore silly Barke that did pure loue possesse: With great vngratefull stormes thus am I blowne On ruthlesse Rocks, still deafe at my distresse. So long-sought-Conquest doth in ruin's bost, And saies behold, thy loue and labor's lost.

Since all my loue and labor's lost, let Fame Spit forth her hate, and with that hatefull scorne In darke oblivion sepulchrize my name, And tell the world that I was never borne. In me all earthly dream'd-of-joy shall ende, As Indian hearbs which in black smok I spend.

Al-doting pleasure, that all tempting-devill, I shall abhor, as a contag'ous Pest I'le purge and clense my senses of that Evill, I sweare and vow, still in this vow to rest, In sable-habit of the mourning blacke, I'le solemnize my oath and vow I make.

Then goe vaine World, confused Masse of nought, Thy bitternesse hath now abus'd my braine, Avoid thy deu'llish Fancy from my thought, With idle toyes torment me not againe: My Time which thy alluring folly spent, With heart contreat and teares I doe repent.

FINIS.