| |
| FROM pensive fancies then I gan my heart revoke; | |
| And gave me to such sporting plays as laughter might provoke: | |
| But even such vain delights, when they most blinded me, | |
| Always, methought, with smiling grace a king did ill agree. | |
| Then sought I how to please my belly with much wine, | 5 |
| To feed me fat with costly feasts of rare delights, and fine; | |
| And other pleasures eke to purchase me, with rest: | |
| In so great choice to find the thing that might content me best. | |
| But, Lord! what care of mind, what sudden storms of ire, | |
| What broken sleeps endured I, to compass my desire. | 10 |
| To build me houses fair then set I all my cure: | |
| By princely acts thus strove I still to make my fame endure. | |
| Delicious gardens eke I made to please my sight; | |
| And graft therein all kinds of fruits that might my mouth delight. | |
| Conduits, by lively springs from their old course I drew, | 15 |
| For to refresh the fruitful trees that in my gardens grew. | |
| Of cattle great increase I bred in little space; | |
| Bondmen I bought; I gave them wives, and serv’d me with their race. | |
| Great heaps of shining gold by sparing gan I save; | |
| With things of price so furnished as fits a prince to have. | 20 |
| To hear fair women sing sometime I did rejoice; | |
| Ravished with their pleasant tunes, and sweetness of their voice. | |
| Lemans I had, so fair and of so lively hue, | |
| That whoso gazed in their face might well their beauty rue. | |
| Never erst sat there king so rich in David’s seat; | 25 |
| Yet still, methought, for so small gain the travail was too great. | |
| From my desirous eyes I hid no pleasant sight, | |
| Nor from my heart no kind of mirth that might give them delight; | |
| Which was the only fruit I reap’d of all my pain, | |
| To feed my eyes, and to rejoice my heart with all my gain. | 30 |
| But when I made my count, with how great care of mind | |
| And hearts unrest, that I had sought so wasteful fruit to find; | |
| Then was I striken straight with that abused fire, | |
| To glory in that goodly wit that compass’d my desire. | |
| But fresh before mine eyes grace did my faults renew: | 35 |
| What gentle callings I had fled my ruin to pursue; | |
| What raging pleasures past, peril and hard escape; | |
| What fancies in my head had wrought the liquor of the grape. | |
| The error then I saw that their frail hearts doth move, | |
| Which strive in vain for to compare with Him that sits above: | 40 |
| In whose most perfect works such craft appeareth plain, | |
| That to the least of them, there may no mortal hand attain. | |
| And like as lightsome day doth shine above the night, | |
| So dark to me did folly seem, and wisdom’s beams as bright, | |
| Whose eyes did seem so clear motes to discern and find: | 45 |
| But Will had closed Folly’s eyes, which groped like the blind. | |
| Yet death and time consume all wit and worldly fame; | |
| And look! what end that folly hath, and wisdom hath the same. | |
| Then said I thus: ‘Oh Lord! may not thy wisdom cure | |
| The wailful wrongs and hard conflicts that folly doth endure?’ | 50 |
| To sharp my wit so fine then why took I this pain? | |
| Now find I well this noble search may eke be called vain. | |
| As slander’s loathsome bruit sounds folly’s just reward, | |
| Is put to silence all betime, and brought in small regard: | |
| Even so doth time devour the noble blast of fame, | 55 |
| Which should resound their glories great that do deserve the same. | |
| Thus present changes chase away the wonders past, | |
| Ne is the wise man’s fatal thread yet longer spun to last. | |
| Then in this wretched vale, our life I loathed plain, | |
| When I beheld our fruitless pains to compass pleasures vain. | 60 |
| My travail this avail hath me produced, lo! | |
| An heir unknown shall reap the fruit that I in seed did sow. | |
| But whereunto the Lord his nature shall incline | |
| Who can foreknow, into whose hands I must my goods resign. | |
| But, Lord, how pleasant sweet then seem’d the idle life, | 65 |
| That never charged was with care, nor burthened with strife. | |
| And vile the greedy trade of them that toil so sore, | |
| To leave to such their travails fruit that never sweat therefore. | |
| What is that pleasant gain? what is that sweet relief, | |
| That should delay the bitter taste that we feel of our grief? | 70 |
| The gladsome days we pass to search a simple gain; | |
| The quiet nights, with broken sleeps, to feed a restless brain. | |
| What hope is left us then? What comfort doth remain? | |
| Our quiet hearts for to rejoice with the fruit of our pain. | |
| If that be true, who may himself so happy call | 75 |
| As I whose free and sumptuous spence doth shine beyond them all? | |
| Surely it is a gift and favour of the Lord, | |
| Liberally to spend our goods, the ground of all discord. | |
| And wretched hearts have they that let their treasures mould, | |
| And carry the rod that scourgeth them that glory in their gold. | 80 |
| But I do know, by proof, whose riches bear such bruit, | |
| What stable wealth may stand in waste, or heaping of such fruit. | |
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