The Brides Burial.
|
COme mourn, come mourn with me,
|
you loyal lovers all,
|
Lament my loss in weeds of woe,
|
whom gripping grief doth thrall:
|
Like to the dropping vine,
|
cut by the gardner's knife,
|
Even so my heart with sorrow slain,
|
doth bleed for my sweet wife.
|
By death, that grisly ghost,
|
my turtle-dove is slain,
|
And I am left, unhappy man,
|
to spend my days in pain.
|
Her beauty late so bright,
|
like roses in their prime,
|
Is wasted like the mountain's snow,
|
by force of Phoebus shine.
|
Her fair red coloured cheecks,
|
now pale and wan her eyes,
|
That late did shine like cristal stars,
|
alas, their light it dies;
|
Her pretty lilly hands,
|
with fingers long and small;
|
In colour like the earthly clay,
|
yea, cold and stiff withal.
|
Whenas the morning-star,
|
her golden gates had spread,
|
And that the glistering sun arose
|
forth from fair Theis bed:
|
Then did my love awake,
|
most like a lilly-flower,
|
And as the lovly Queen of heaven,
|
so shone she in her bower.
|
Attired was she then
|
like Flora in her pride,
|
As fair as any of Dianas nymphs,
|
so lookt my loving bride.
|
And as fair Hellens face,
|
gave Grecian dames the lurch,
|
So did my dear exceed in sight,
|
all virgins in the church.
|
When he had knit the knot,
|
of holy wedlock-band,
|
Like alabaster joyn'd to jet,
|
so stood we hand in hand:
|
Then loe a chilling cold
|
struck every vital part,
|
& griping grief like pangs of death
|
seiz'd on my true love's heart.
|
Down in a swound she fell,
|
as cold as any stone,
|
Like Venus picture lacking life,
|
so was my love brought home:
|
At length my rosy red,
|
throughout her comely face,
|
As Phoebus beams with watry clouds
|
o'er covered for a space.
|
When with a grievous groan,
|
and voice both hoarse and dry,
|
Farewel, quoth she, my loving friend
|
for I this day must dye:
|
The messenger of God,
|
with golden trumpet I see,
|
With many other Angels more,
|
which sound and call for me.
|
Instead of musick sweet
|
go towl my passing-bell,
|
And with sweet flowers strow my grave
|
that in my chamber smell;
|
Strip off my bride's array,
|
my cork-shooes from my feet,
|
And gentle mother be not coy,
|
to bring my winding sheet.
|
My wedding-dinner drest,
|
bestow upon the poor.
|
And on the hungry, needy, mam'd,
|
that craveth at the door.
|
Instead of virgins young
|
my bride-bed for to see;
|
Go cause some curious carpenter
|
to make a chest for me.
|
My bride laces of silk,
|
bestow'd on maiden's meet;
|
May fitly serve when I am dead
|
to tie my hands and feet.
|
And thou my lover true;
|
my husband and my friend,
|
Let me intreat thee here to stay;
|
until my life doth end.
|
Now leave to talk of love,
|
and humbly on your knee;
|
Direct your prayers unto God,
|
but mourn no more for me;
|
In love as we have liv'd,
|
in love let us depart;
|
And I in token of my love
|
do kiss the with my heart.
|
O stanch those bootless tears
|
thy weeping is in vain;
|
I am not lost, for we in heaven,
|
shall one day meet again.
|
With that she turn'd aside,
|
as one dispos'd to sleep,
|
And like a lamb departed life,
|
whose friends did sorely weep.
|
Her true love seeing this,
|
did fetcht a grievous groan,
|
As tho' his heart would burst in too
|
and thus he made his moan:
|
O dismal and unhappy day,
|
a day of grief and care,
|
That hath bereft the sun so high,
|
whose beams refresh the air.
|
Now woe unto the world,
|
and all that therein dwell,
|
O that I were with thee in heaven,
|
for here I live in hell.
|
And now this lover lives
|
a discontented life,
|
Whose bride was brought unto her grave
|
a maiden and a wife.
|
A garland fresh and fair
|
of lillies there was made;
|
In sign of her virginity,
|
and on her coffin laid:
|
Six maidens all in white
|
did bear her to the ground;
|
The bells did ring in solemn sort,
|
and made a doleful sound.
|
In earth they laid her then,
|
for hungry worms a prey,
|
So shall the fairest face alive
|
at length be brought to clay.
|
|
|
|
|
|