LAMENTACION OF A GENTILWOMAN UPON DEATH OF .. WILLIAM GRUFFITH GENT by ISABELLA WHITNEY

A doubtfull, dying, dolefull, Dame,
Not fearing death, nor forcing life:
Nor caring ought for flitting fame,
Emongst such sturdy stormes of strife:
Here doth shee mourne and write her will,
Upon her liked Lovers ende:
Graunt (Muses nyne) your sacred skill,
Helpe to assist your mournfull freend:
Embouldned with your Nimphish ayde,
Shee will not cease, but seeke to singe:
And eke employ her willing head,
Her Gruffithes prayse, with ruthe to ringe.

With Poets pen, I doo not preace to write,
@3MinervΧs@1 mate, I doo not boast to bee:
@3Parnassus@1 Mount (I speake it for no spite)
Can cure my cursed cares, I playnly see:
For why? my hart contaynes as many woes
As ever @3Hector@1 did amongst his foes.

Eche man doth mone, when faythfull freends bee dead,
And paynt them out, as well as wits doo serve:
But I, a Mayde, am forst to use my head,
To wayle my freend (whose fayth) did prayse deserve:
Wit wants to will: alas? no skill I have,
Yet must I needes deplore my @3Gruffithes@1 grave:

For @3William@1, white: for @3Gruffith@1, greene: I wore,
And red, longe since did serve to please my minde:
Now, blacke, I weare, of mee, not us'd before:
In liew of love, alas? this losse I finde:
Now must I leave, both, White, and Greene, and Red,
And wayle my freend, who is but lately dead.

Yet hurtfull eyes, doo bid mee cast away,
In open show, this carefull blacke attyre:
Because it would, my secret love bewray,
And pay my pate, with hatred for my hyre:
Though outwardly, I dare not weare the same,
Yet in my hart, a web of blacke I frame.

You Ladyes all, that passe not for no payne,
But have your lovers lodged in your laps:
I crave your aydes, to helpe mee mourne amayne,
Perhaps your selves, shall feele such carefull claps:
Which (God forbid) that any Lady taste,
Who shall by mee but only learne to waste.

My wits be weake an Epitaphe to write,
Because it doth require a graver stile:
My phrase doth serve but rudely to recite,
How Lovers losse doth pinch mee all this while:
Who was as prest to dye for @3Gruffithes@1 sake,
As @3Damon@1, did for @3Pithias@1 undertake.

But @3William@1 had a worldly freend in store,
Who writ his end to small effect (God knowes)
But I. and H. his name did show no more,
Rime Ruffe it is, the common sentence goes,
It hangs at Pawles as every man goes by,
One ryme too low, an other rampes too hye.

He praysd him out as worldly freends doo use,
And uttered all the skill that God had sent:
But I am shee that never will refuse,
But as I am, so will I still bee bent:
No blastes shall blow, my lincked love awry,
Oh! would the Gods, with @3Gruffith@1 I might dye.

Then had it been that I poore silly Dame,
Had had no neede to blot this scratched scroule:
Then Virgins fist, had not set forth the same
How God hath gripte, my @3Gruffithes@1 sacred soule:
But woe is mee, I live in pinching payne,
No wight doth know, what sorowes I sustayne.

Unhappy may that drowsie day bee nam'd,
Wherin I first possesst my vitall breath:
And eke I wish, that day that I was fram'd,
Instead of life I had received death:
Then with these woes, I needed not to waste,
Which now (alas) in every vayne I taste.

Some @3Zoylus@1 sot, will thinke it lightly doone,
Because I mone, my mate, and lover, so
Some @3Momus@1 match, this scroule will overronne
But love is lawlesse, every wight doth know:
Sith love doth lend mee such a freendly scope,
Disdaynfull dogs I may despise (I hope)

Wherfore I doo, attempt so much the more,
By this good hope, to shew my slender arte:
And mourne I must (who) never marckt before,
What fretting force doo holde eche heavy hart:
But now I see that @3Gruffithes@1 greedy grave,
Doth make mee feele, the fits which lovers have.

My mournfull Muse, (good Ladyes) take in worth,
And spare to speake the worst, but judge the best:
For this is all, that I dare publish forth,
The rest recorded is, within my brest:
And there is lodg'd, for ever to remayne,
Till God doth graunt (by death) to ease my payne.

And when that death is come to pay her due,
With all the paynes, that shee can well invent:
Yet to my @3Gruffith@1, will I still be true,
Hap death, holde life, my minde is fully bent:
Before I will our secret love disclose,
To @3Tantals@1 paynes, my body I dispose.

So live I shall, when death hath spit her spight,
And Lady (@3Fame@1) will spread my prayse I know:
And @3Cupids@1 Knights, will never cease to write,
And cause my name, through (@3Europe@1) for to flow:
And they that know what (@3Cupid@1) can prevayle,
Will blesse the ship, that floates with such a sayle.

If I had part of @3Pallas@1 learned skill,
Or if (@3Caliope@1) would lend her ayde:
By trade of time, great volumes I would fill,
My @3Gruffithes@1 prayse in wayling verse to spread:
But (I poore I) as I have sayd before,
Doo wayle, to want, @3Minervaes@1 learned lore.

By helpe (I hope) these ragged rymes shall goe,
Entituled as lovers' ly[n]es should bee:
And scape the chyding chaps of every foe,
To prayse that man, who was best likte of mee:
Though death hath shapte, his most untimely end,
Yet for his prayse, my tristive tunes I send.

In hope, the Gods who guide the heavens above,
His buryed corps, alive agayne will make:
And have remorce of Ladyes lincked love,
As once they did for good @3Admetus@1 sake:
Or change him els, into some flower to weare,
As erst they did, transforme @3Narcissus@1 fayre.

So should I then, possess my former freend,
Restor'd to lyfe, as @3Alcest@1 was from Hell,
Or els the Gods, some fragrant flower would send,
Which for his sake, I might both weare and smell:
Which flower, out of my hand shall never passe,
But in my harte, shall have a sticking place.

But wo is mee, my wishes are in vayne,
Adue delight, come crooked cursed care:
To bluntish blockes (I see) I doo complayne,
And reape but onely sorrow for my share:
For wel I know that Gods nor sprites can cure,
The paynes that I for @3Gruffith@1 doo endure.

Since wayling, no way can remedy mee,
To make an ende, I therfore judge it best:
And drinke up all, my sorrow secretly,
And as I can, I will abide the rest:
And sith I dare not mourne, to open showe,
With secret sighes and teares, my hart shall flow.

Some busie brayne, perhaps will aske my name,
Disposed much, some tidings for to marke:
That dare I not? for feare of flying fame,
And eke I feare least byting bugs will barke:
Therfore farewell, and aske no more of mee,
@3For (as I am) a Lover will I dye@1.

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