Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PAMPHILIA TO AMPHILANTHUS: GRIEF, by MARY SIDNEY WROTH 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PARTHENOPHIL AND PARTHENOPHE: MADRIGAL 14 by BARNABE BARNES SONNETS IN SHADOWS: 1 by ARLO BATES IN PRAISE OF PAIN by HEATHER MCHUGH THE SYMPATIZERS by JOSEPHINE MILES LEEK STREET by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR PAMPHILIA TO AMPHILANTHUS: SONNET 74. SONG by MARY SIDNEY WROTH |
|