O breake my hart quoth he, O breake and dye,
Whose infant thoughts were nurst with sweete delight;
But now the Inne of care and miserie,
Whose pleasing hope is murthered with despight:
O end my dayes, for now my joyes are done,
Wanting my Peirs, my sweetest Gaveston.
Farewell my Love, companion of my youth,
My soules delight, the subject of my mirth,
My second selfe if I reporte the truth,
The rare and only Phenix of the earth,
Farewell sweete friend, with thee my joyes are gone,
Farewell my Peirs, my lovely Gaveston.
What are the rest but painted Imagrie,
Dombe Idols made to fill up idle roomes,
But gaudie anticks, sportes of foolerie,
But fleshly coffins, goodly gilded tombes,
But puppets which with others' words replie,
Like pratling ecchoes soothing every lie?
O damned world, I scorne thee and thy worth,
The very source of all iniquitie:
An ougly damme that brings such monsters forth,
The maze of death, nurse of impietie,
A filthie sinke, where lothsomnes doth dwell,
A labyrinth, a jayle, a very hell.
Deceitfull Siren traytor to my youth,
Bane to my blisse, false theefe that stealst my joyes:
Mother of lyes, sworne enemie to truth,
The ship of fooles fraught all with gaudes and toyes,
A vessel stuft with foule hypocrisie,
The very temple of Idolatrie.
O earth-pale Saturne most malevolent,
Combustious Planet, tyrant in thy raigne,
The sworde of wrath, the roote of discontent,
In whose ascendant all my joyes are slaine:
Thou executioner of foule bloodie rage,
To act the will of lame decrepit age.
My life is but a very mappe of woes,
My joyes the fruite of an untimely birth,
My youth in labour with unkindly throwes,
My pleasures are like plagues that raigne on earth,
All my delights like streames that swiftly run,
Or like the dewe exhaled by the Sun.
O Heavens why are you deafe unto my mone?
S'dayne you my prayers? or scorne to hear my misse?
Cease you to move, or is your pittie gone?
Or is it you that rob me of my blisse?
What are you blinde, or winke and will not see?
Or doe you sporte at my calamitie?
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