Page:Tixall Poetry.djvu/385

The wounde, the hert, and blode of my darling,
Shal never slide fro my memorial,
The byttir paines also of tormenting
Within my soule be gravin principal;
The spere, alas! that was so sharpe withall,
So thrillid my herte, as to my feling,
That body and soule were at departing.—

Than gan I there min armis to unbrace,
Up lifting my handis, ful mourningly,
I sighid and sore sobbid in that place,
Both hevin and erthe might have herd me crie.
Weeping, and said, alas! incessauntly,
Ah, my swete herte, my gostly paramour!
Alas, I may not thy body socour!
٭٭٭٭٭
Adue, my Lorde! my love so faire of face!
Adue, my turtle dove, so freshe of hue!
Adue, my mirthe! adue, al my solace!
Adue, alas I my Saviour Lorde Jesu!
Adue, the gentillist that er I knewe!
Adue, my most excellent paramour!
Fairir than rose, swetir than lylly flour!

Adue, my hope of plesure eternal!
My lyfe, my welth, and my prosperite!
Mine herte of golde, my perle oriental!
Myne adamant of parfite charite!
My chefe refuge and my felycite!
My comforte and my recreacioun!
Farewel, my perpetual salvacioun!