William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.
Who Grace for Zenith HadFulke Greville, Lord Brooke (15541628)
W
From which no shadows grow,
Who hath seen joy of all his hopes,
And end of all his woe;
The crown of his desire;
Who hath seen sorrow’s glories burnt
In sweet affection’s fire;
Which souls with souls unites,
He be fallen down into the dark
Despairèd war of sprites,
For none doth glory know,
That hath not been above himself,
And thence fallen down to woe.
Left in his anguished heart,
If fear of worse, if wish of ease,
If horror may depart.
He is no mate for me,
Whose love is lost, whose hopes are fled,
Whose fears for ever be;
Which show Desire her death,
Teaching with use a piece in woe,
And in despair a faith.
But make uncurèd wounds,
Where joy and peace do issue out,
And only pain abounds.
Reward, and hope to me;
Yet while unpossible they are,
They easy seem to be.
Despair, and death to me;
Yet while they passing easy seem,
Unpossible they be.
My hopes that do deceive,
Nor can I trust mine own despair
And nothing else receive.
Blest, to be more accurst;
Near to the glories of the sun
Clouds with most horror burst.
Who live not, though they go;
Whose walking, fear to others is,
And to themselves a woe;
Whose love to me is dead,
On whose worth my despair yet walks,
And my desire is fed.
Which carries down my death;
I cannot put love from my heart
While life draws in my breath.
Which witherèth my joy;
My knowledge, seat of civil war,
Where friends and foes destroy;
Whereon my heart is borne,
With endless turning of themselves,
Still living to be torn.
Ordained to be a prey
To wrath, and being still consumed,
Yet never to decay.
My heart laid up the store
Of help, of joy, of spirit’s wealth
To multiply them more.
Did live, and taste the tree,
Which shadowed was from all the world,
In joy to shadow me:
Or I have lost my seat;
My soul both black with shadow is,
And over-burnt with heat.
To show her power is great,
Whom no desert can overcome,
Nor no distress entreat.
And time to come my grief;
She ever must be my desire,
And never my relief.
My wounded thoughts are they
Who have no power to keep the field,
Nor will to run away.
And where is change so base,
As it may be compared with thee
In scorn and in disgrace?
Deposed from their estate,
Yet cannot choose but love the crown
Although new kings they hate;
Nay, if they only live,—
Offences to the crown alike
Their good and ill shall give.
Because I may complain,
And cannot choose but love my wrongs,
And joy to wish in vain.
My right doth rumour move;
I may not know the cause I fell,
Nor yet without cause love.
At least where is the fame
Of them that, being, bear thy cross,
And, being not, thy name?
A fable everywhere,
A well from whence the springs are dried,
A tree that doth not bear;
At first with cunning caught,
And in my bondage for delight
With greater cunning taught.
I’m neither loved, nor fed,
Nor freed am I, till in the cage
Forgotten I be dead.
And she, be not the same
They were, although ship, stream, and she
Still bear their antique name.
Those waves are run away;
Yet still a ship, and still a stream,
Still running to a sea.
But doth not still love me;
To all except myself yet is
As she was wont to be.
The heaven where grace did dwell!
My saint hath turned away her face;
And made that heaven my hell!
From whence no souls return,
Where, while our spirits are sacrificed,
They waste not, though they burn.
And nothing worse than this,
Behold the map of death-like life,
Exiled from lovely bliss:
Strange with my friends to be,
Showing my fall to them that scorn,
See not, or will not see;
My studies only fear,
And, as in shadows of curst death,
A prospect of despair.
My horrors to repeat;
My peace, joy, end, and sacrifice,
Her dead love to entreat;
The time to come, my fast;
For drink, the barren thirst I feel
Of glories that are past;
Reason my looking-glass,
To show me, he most wretched is
That once most happy was.
To tell me every day
That Time hath stolen love, life and all
But my distress away.
My walk an inward woe;
Which like a shadow ever shall
Before my body go.
That doth with none compare,
Except in woes and lack of worth
Whose states more wretched are.
Nor what else I should be;
For GRIEVE-ILL, pain, forlorn estate
Do best decipher me.