116
The first Booke of
Cant. VIII.
But nether darkenesse fowle, nor filthy bands,Nor noyous smell his purpose could withhold,(Entire affection hateth nicer hands)But that with constant zele, and corage bold,After long paines and labors manifold,He found the meanes that Prisoner vp to reare;Whose feeble thighes, vnhable to vpholdHis pined corse, him scarse to light could beare,A ruefull spectacle of death and ghastly drere.
His sad dull eies deepe sunck in hollow pits,Could not endure th'vnwonted sunne to view;His bare thin cheekes for want of better bits,And empty sides deceiued of their dew,Could make a stony hart his hap to rew;His rawbone armes, whose mighty brawned bowrsWere wont to riue steele plates, and helmets hew,Were clene consum'd, and all his vitall powresDecayd, and al his flesh shronk vp like withered flowres.
Whome when his Lady saw, to him she ranWith hasty ioy: to see him made her glad,And sad to view his visage pale and wan,Who earst in flowres of freshest youth was clad.Tho when her well of teares she wasted had,She said, Ah dearest Lord, what euill starreOn you hath frownd, and pourd his influence bad,That of your selfe ye thus berobbed arre,And this misseeming hew your māly looks doth marre?
But welcome now my Lord, in wele or woe,Whose presence I haue lackt too long a day;And fie on Fortune mine auowed foe,Whose wrathful wreakes them selues doe now alay.
And
