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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519193" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Fancy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hee that his mirth hath loste,<br> Whose comfort is dismaid,<br>Whose hope is vaine, whose faith is scorned,<br> Whose trust is all betraid,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> If he have held them deare,<br> And cannot cease to moane,<br>Come, let him take his place by me;<br> He shall not rue alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> But if the smalest sweete<br> Be mixt with all his sowre;<br>If in the day, the moneth, the yeare,<br> He finde one lightsome hower,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Then rest he by himself;<br> He is noe mate for me,<br>Whose hope is falen, whose succor voyde,<br> Whose hart his death must be.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Yet not the wishèd death,<br> That hathe noe plainte nor lacke,<br>Which, making free the better parte,<br> Is onely nature's sacke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Oh me! that wer too well,<br> My death is of the minde,<br>Which alwayes yeeldès extreame paines,<br> Yet keepes the worst behind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> As one that lives in shewe<br> But inwardly doth die,<br>Whose knowledge is a bloody field<br> Wheare all hope slaine doth lie;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Whose harte the aulter is,<br> Whose spirit, the sacrifize<br>Unto the Powers whome to appease<br> Noe sorrowes can sufize.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Whose fancies are like thornes,<br> On which I goe by night,<br>Whose arguments are like a hoste,<br> That force hath put to flight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Whose sense is passion's spye,<br> Whose thoughtes, like ruins old<br>Of Carthage, or the famous towne<br> That Sinon bought and sold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Which still before my face,<br> My mortall foe doth lay,<br>Whome love and fortune once advanced<br> And nowe hath cast away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> O thoughtes! noe thoughtes but woundes,<br> Sometimes the seate of Joy<br>Sometimes the chaire of quiet rest<br> But nowe of all annoy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I sowed the feild of peace,<br> My blisse was in the Springe;<br>And day by day I ate the fruit<br> That my Live's tree did bring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> To nettels nowe my corne,<br> My feild is turnd to flint,<br>Where sitting in the cipres shade,<br> I reade the hiacint.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> The joy, the rest, the life<br> That I enioyed of yore<br>Came to my lot that by my losse,<br> My smarte might smarte the more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Thus to unhappie men<br> The best frames to the worste;<br>O tyme, O places. O woordes, O lookes,<br> Deere then but nowe accurst!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> In 'was' stood my delight,<br> In 'is' and 'shall' my woe;<br>My horrors fastned in the 'yea,'<br> My hope hangs in the 'noe.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I looke for noe delight,<br> Releefe will come too late;<br>Too late I finde, I finde too well,<br> Too well stoode my Estate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Behold, heere is the end,<br> And nothing heere is sure:<br>Ah nothinge ells but plaints and cares<br> Doth to the world enduer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Forsaken first was I,<br> Then utterly foregotten;<br>And he that came not to my faith,<br> Lo! my reward hath gotten.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Nowe Love, where are thy lawes<br> That make thy torments sweete?<br>What is the cause that some through thee<br> Have thought their death but meet?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Thy stately chaste disdaine,<br> Thy secret thanckfulnes,<br>Thy grace reservd, thy common light<br> That shines in worthines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> O that it were not soe<br> Or that I could excuse!<br>O that the wrath of Jelousie<br> My judgement might abuse!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> O fraile unconstant kind,<br> And safe in truste to noe man!<br>Noe woemen angells are, yet loe!<br> My mistris is a woman!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Yet hate I but the falte,<br> And not the faultie one;<br>Nor can I rid me of the bonds<br> Wherein I lie alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Alone I lie, whose like<br> By love was never yet;<br>Nor rich, nor poore, nor younge, nor old,<br> Nor fond, nor full of witt.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Hers still remaine must I,<br> By wronge, by death, by shame;<br>I cannot blot out of my minde<br> That love wrought in her name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> I cannot set at naught<br> That I have held soe deare,<br>I cannot make it seem so farre<br> That is indeede soe neare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Nor that I meane, henceforth<br> This strange will to professe:<br>I never will betray such trust<br> And fall to ficklenesse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Nor shall it ever faile<br> That my word bare in hand:<br>I gave my word, my worde gave me,<br> Both worde and gaift shall stand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Syth then it must be thus<br> And this is all to ill,<br>I yeelde me captiue to my curse,<br> My harde fate to fulfill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> The solitarie woodes,<br> My Cittie shall become;<br>The darkest den shalbe my lodge<br> Whereto noe light shall come.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Of heban blacke my boorde;<br> The wormes my meate shalbe,<br>Wherewith my carcase shalbe fed<br> Till thes doe feede on me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> My wine, of Niobe,<br> My bed the cragie rocke,<br>My harmony, the serpent's hisse,<br> The shreikinge owle, my cocke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Mine exercise naught ells<br> But raginge agonies;<br>My bookes, of spightfull fortune's foiles<br> And drerye tragedies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> My walkes the pathes of plaint,<br> My prospect into Hell,<br>With Sisiphus and all his pheres<br> In endles paines to dwell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> And though I seeme to use<br> The poet's fainèd stile,<br>To figure forth my wofull plight,<br> My fall and my exile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Yet is my greeffe not faind,<br> Wherein I starve and pine,<br>Whoe feeleth most shall finde it least<br> Comparinge his with mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> My songe,--if anie aske<br> Whose grievous case is such?<br>Dy er thou let'st his name be knowne,--<br> His follye showes too much.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> But best, were thee to hide<br> And never come to light;<br>For in the worle can none but thee<br> These accents sound aright.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> And soe a end: my tale is tould:<br> His life is but disdaind,<br>Whose sorrowes present paine him soe,<br> His pleasures are full faind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Finis.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Edward+Dyer">Sir Edward Dyer</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519193" data-title="A Fancy de Sir Edward Dyer" data-description="Hee that his mirth hath loste,
 Whose comfort is dismaid,
Whose hope is vaine, whose faith is scorned,
 Whose trust is all betraid,


 If he have held them deare,
 And cannot cease to moane,
Come, let him take his place by me;
 He shall not rue al..."></div>
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