Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PAMPHILIA TO AMPHILANTHUS: GRIEF, by MARY SIDNEY WROTH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PAMPHILIA TO AMPHILANTHUS: GRIEF, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Griefe, killing griefe, have nott my torments binn
Last Line: Burning my hart who had him kindly warmd.
Alternate Author Name(s): Wroth, Mary, Lady; Montgomery, Countess Of
Subject(s): Grief; Pain; Sorrow; Sadness; Suffering; Misery


Griefe, killing griefe: have nott my torments binn
Allreddy great, and strong enough: butt still
Thou dost increase, nay glory in mine ill,
And woes new past affresh new woes beeginn!

Am I the only purchase thou canst winn?
Was I ordain'd to give dispaire her fill
Or fittest I should mounte misfortunes hill
Who in the plaine of joy can-nott live in?

If itt bee soe: Griefe come as wellcome ghest
Since I must suffer, for an others rest:
Yett this good griefe, lett mee intreat of thee,

Use still thy force, butt nott from those I love
Lett mee all paines and lasting torments prove
Soe I miss thes, lay all thy waits on mee.

Fly hence O! joy noe longer heere abide
Too great thy pleasures ar for my dispaire
To looke on, losses now must prove my fare
Who nott long since, on better foode relide;

Butt foole, how oft had I heavns changing spide
Beefore of my owne fate I could have care,
Yett now past time, I can too late beeware
When nothing's left butt sorrowes faster tyde;

While I injoy'd that sunn whose sight did lend
Mee joy, I thought, that day, could have noe end
Butt soone a night came cloth'd in absence darke,

Absence more sad, more bitter then is gall
Or death, when on true lovers itt doth fall
Whose fires of love, disdaine rests poorer sparke.

You blessed shades, which give mee silent rest,
Wittnes butt this when death hath clos'd mine eyes,
And separated mee from earthly ties,
Beeing from hence to higher place adrest;

How oft in you I have laine heere oprest,
And have my miseries in woefull cries
Deliver'd forth, mounting up to the skies
Yett helples back returnd to wound my brest,

Which wounds did butt strive how, to breed more harme
To mee, who, can bee cur'de by noe one charme
Butt that of love, which yett may mee releeve;

If nott, lett death my former paines redeeme,
My trusty freinds, my faith untouch'd esteeme
And wittnes I could love, who soe could greeve.

After long trouble in a taedious way
Of loves unrest, lay'd downe to ease my paine
Hopeing for rest, new torments I did gaine
Possessing mee as if I ought t'obay:

When Fortune came, though blinded, yett did stay,
And in her blesse'd armes did mee inchaine;
I, colde with griefe, thought noe warmth to obtaine
Or to dissolve that ice of joyes decay;

Till, 'rise sayd she, Reward to thee doth send
By mee the servante of true lovers, joy:
Bannish all clowds of doubt, all feares destroy,
And now on fortune, and on Love depend.

I, her obay'd, and rising felt that love
Indeed was best, when I did least itt move.

Faulce hope which feeds butt to destroy, and spill
What itt first breeds; unaturall to the birth
Of thine owne wombe; conceaving butt to kill,
And plenty gives to make the greater dearth,

Soe Tirants doe who faulsly ruling earth
Outwardly grace them, and with profitts fill
Advance those who appointed are to death
To make theyr greater falle to please theyr will.

Thus shadow they theyr wicked vile intent
Coulering evill with a show of good
While in faire showes theyr malice soe is spent;
Hope kills the hart, and tirants shed the blood.

For hope deluding brings us to the pride
Of our desires the farder downe to slide.

I, that ame of all most crost
Having, and that had, have lost,
May with reason thus complaine
Since love breeds love, and lovs paine;

That which I did most desire
To allay my loving fire
I may have, yett now must miss
Since an other ruler is:

Would that I noe ruler had,
Or the service nott soe badd,
Then might I, with blis injoy
That which now my hopes destroy;

And thatt wicked pleasure gott
Brings with itt the sweetest lott:
I, that must nott taste the best
Fed must sterve, and restles rest.

Love a child is ever criing,
Please him, and hee straite is flying,
Give him hee the more is craving
Never satisfi'd with having;

His desires have noe measure,
Endles folly is his treasure,
What hee promiseth hee breaketh
Trust nott one word that he speaketh;

Hee vowes nothing butt faulce matter,
And to cousen you hee'l flatter,
Lett him gaine the hand hee'll leave you,
And still glory to deseave you;

Hee will triumph in your wayling,
And yett cause bee of your fayling,
Thes his vertus ar, and slighter
Ar his guiftes, his favours lighter,

Feathers ar as firme in staying
Woulves noe fiercer in theyr praying.
As a child then leave him crying
Nor seeke him soe giv'n to flying.

Late in the Forest I did Cupid see
Colde, wett, and crying hee had lost his way,
And beeing blind was farder like to stray:
Which sight a kind compassion bred in mee,

I kindly tooke, and dride him, while that hee
Poore child complain'd hee sterved was with stay,
And pin'de for want of his accustom'd pray,
For non in that wilde place his hoste would bee,

I glad was of his finding, thinking sure
This service should my freedome still procure,
And in my armes I tooke him then unharmde,

Carrying him safe unto a Mirtle bowre
Butt in the way hee made mee feele his powre,
Burning my hart who had him kindly warmd.





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