Epitaphes, epigrams, songs and sonets with a discourse of the friendly affections of Tymetes to Pyndara his ladie. Newly corrected with additions, and set out by George Turbervile Gentleman.

Complaint of the long absence of his Loue vpon the first ac∣quaintance.

O Cursed, cruell, canckred Chaunce, O Fortune full of spight, Why hast thou so on sodaine rest from mée my chiefe delight? What glorie shalt thou gaine perdie or purchace by the rage? This is no Conquest to be callde, wherefore thy wrath asswage. To soone eclipsed was my ioy, my dolors grow to fast: For want of hir that is my life, my life it can not last. Is this thy fickle kind so soone to hoise a man to ioy, And ere he touch the top of blisse to bréede him such anoy? Nowe doe I plaine perceiue and sée that Poets faine not all, For churlish Chaunce is counted blinde and full of filthy Gall. I thought there had béene no such Dame ne Goddesse on a whéele: But now too well I know hir kinde, too soone hir force I féele.

And that which doth augment my smart and maketh more my wo, Is, for I felt a sodaine ioy where now this griefe doth grow. If thou hadst ment (vnhappie Hap) thus to haue nipt my ioy, Why didst thou show a smyling chéere that shouldst haue lookte acoy? For griefes doe nothing grudge at all but where was blisse before: None wailes the want of wealth so much as he that had the store. Not he that neuer saw the Sunne complaines for lack of light, But such as saw his golden gleames and knew his chéerefull might. Too late I learne through spitefull chaunce that ioy is mixt with wo, And eche good hap hath hate in hoorde, the course of things is so. So Poyson lurcks in Suger swéete, the Hooke so hides the bayte: Euen so in gréene and pleasant grasse the Serpent lies in wayte. Vlysses wife I learne at last thy sorrow and distresse, In absence of thy lingring Loue, that should thy woes redresse.

Great was your griefe (ye Gréekish Girlles) whilste stately Troie stood, And kept your husbands from your laps in perill of their blood. All ye therefore that haue assayde what torments lack procures Of that you loue, lament my lack which ouerlong endures. Ye Winds transport my soking sighes to my new chosen Friende, So may my sorrow swage perhaps and dréerie state haue ende. Ye Sighes make true report of teares, that so beraine my brest, As Helens husbands neuer were for treason of his Guest. If thou (my Letter) maist attaine the place of hir abode, Doe thou, as Herauld of the hart, my sorrowes quite vnlode. In thée as in a Myrronr cléere or Christall may she vewe My pangues, my paynes, my sighes and teares which Tigers could but rewe. There shall shée see my secret parts encombred all with mone, My fainting lims, my vapord eien with hart as colde as stone.

I know shée can but rue my case when thou presents my sute, Wherefore play thou thy part so well that I may reape the frute. And if (when shée hath read thée through) shée place thée in hir lap, Then chaunge thy chéere thy Maister hath his long desired hap.