Passion XII by Robert Parry

Waste is the soile where naught but thistles grow,
And barren ground will nothing yeild but weeds,
Unhappie is such that soweth not to mowe,
When hope is lost in care, then comfort bleeds;
Waste soyle, voyde hope, thistles and weedes encrease,
In my mindes waste, that waste for want of peace.

Peace with my soule (although my bodie warrs)
Would qualifie the rigor of my paine,
But that I want and must endure the scarrs,
To ranckle, which doe now begin againe,
When ulcers bleed, then daungers doe ensue,
And carefull thoughts my bleeding sores renew.

Renewed thus I count the clocke of care,
No minute past without the tast of smart,
Not as the diall, which doth oft declare:
The time to passe, yet not perceav’d to stait;
Poets faine, time swiftly to flie away,
Yet time is slow, when sorrowe surges sway.

As rotten ragges being dipt, the water drawes,
By soaking fits out of the vessell cleane,
Ev’n so from me doth sorrowes droth (which thawes,
My congeal’d heart, with cruell cursed speene)
Soake out the joyce and moysture of my braine,
For dropping eies can not from teares refraine.

From: Parry, Robert, Sinetes passions vppon his fortunes offered for an incense at the shrine of the ladies which guided his distempered thoughtes. The patrons patheticall posies, sonets, maddrigals, and rowndelayes. Together with Sinetes dompe, 2005, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford, p. [unnumbered].
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A09044.0001.001)

Date: 1597

By: Robert Parry (1540-1612)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: