Bartholomew Young Poems >>
Syernus Song to Eugerius

Let now the goodly Spring-tide make us merrie,
    And fields, which pleasant flowers doo adorne:
    And Vales, Meades, Woods, with lively colours flourish,
Let plenteous flocks the Sheepheards riches nourish,
Let hungry Lambes rejoyce, with passed winter wearie.
              Let every Rivers Ferrie
In waters slow, and silver streams abounding,
              And fortune, ceaselesse wounding.
Turne now thy face, so cruell and unstable,
              Be firme and favourable.
And thou that kill'st our soules with thy pretences:
Molest not (wicked Love) my inward sences.

Let Country plainenes live in joyes not ended,
    In quiet of the desert Meades and mountaines,
    And in the pleasure of a Country dwelling
Let Sheepheards rest, that have distilled fountaines
    Of teares: proove not thy wrath, all paines excelling,
    Upon poore soules, that never have offended.
              Let thy flames be incended
      In haughtie Courts, in those that swim in treasure,
And that a sweetest scorne (my wonted sadnes)
              A perfect rest and gladnes
And hills and Dales, may give me: with offences
Molest not (wicked Love) my inward sences.

In what law find'st thou, that the freest reason
    And wit, unto thy chaines should be subjected,
    And harmelesse soules unto thy cruell murder?
O wicked Love, the wretch that flieth furder
    From thy extreames, thou plagu'st. O false, suspected,
    And carelesse boy, that thus thy sweets doost season,
              O vile and wicked treason.
      Might not thy might suffise thee, but thy fuell
              Of force must be so cruell?
    To be a Lord, yet like a Tyrant minded,
              Vaine boy with errour blinded.
    Why doost thou hurt his life with thy offences:
    That yeelds to thee his soule and inward sences?

He erres (alas) and foulely is deceaved
    That calls thee God, being a burning fire:
    A furious flame, a playning greefe and clamorous,
And Venus sonne (that in the earth was amorous,
    Gentle, and mild, and full of sweet desire)
    Who calleth him, is of his wits bereaved.
              And yet that she conceaved
      By proofe, so vile a sonne and so unruly:
              I say (and yet say truly)
That in the cause of harmes, that they have framed,
              Both justly may be blamed:
She that did breede him with such vile pretences,
He that dooth hurt so much our inward sences.

The gentle Sheepe and Lambs are ever flying
    The ravenous Woolves and beasts, that are pretending
    To glut their mawes with flesh they teare asunder.
The milke-white Doves at noyse of fearefull thunder
    Flie home a-maine, themselves from harme defending.
    The little Chick, when Puttocks are a crying,
              The Woods and Meadowes dying
      For raine of heaven (if that they cannot have it)
              Doo never cease to crave it.
    So every thing his contrary resisteth,
              Onely thy thrall persisteth
    In suffering of thy wrongs without offences:
    And lets thee spoile his hart and inward sences.

A publique passion, Natures lawes restrayning,
    And which with words can never be declared,
    A soule twixt love, and feare, and desperation,
And endlesse plaint, that shuns all consolation,
    A spendlesse flame, that never is impaired,
    A friendlesse death, yet life in death maintayning,
              A passion, that is gayning
      On him that loveth well, and is absented,
              Whereby it is augmented.
    A jealousie, a burning greefe and sorrow,
              These favours Lovers borrow
Of thee fell Love, these be thy recompences:
Consuming still their soule and inward sences.