Humfrey Gifford Poems

O Lord most deare, wh many a teare, lamenting, lameting,
I fall before thy face,
And for ech crime, done ere this time, repenting, repenting
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Who wisely waies false fortunes fickle change,
Which in short space turnes loue to mortal hate,
Shall find smal cause to deem it wondrous strange,
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As I lay musing in my bed,
A heape of fancies came in head,
Which greatly did molest mee.
Such sundry thoughtes of ioy and paine,
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I reade in Poets faigned bookes,
That wise Vlysses wandring came,
Where Circes through her fawning lookes,
Did worke his men a spightfull shame.
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Who so attempts to publish and display,
Of Cupids thrals the strange & awkward fits,
Doth seeke to count the sand amidst the Sea,
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And is there any wight aliue,
That rightly may compare,
Or goe beyond me silly wretch,
In sadnesse and in care?
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Ye gladly would haue me to make you some toy,
And yet will not tel me wherof I should write:
The strangenes of this doth breed me anoy,
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Like as the theefe in prison cast,
With wofull wayling mones,
When hope of pardon cleane is past,
And sighes with dolefull grones:
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Haste homewardes, man, draw neerer to the shore,
The skies doe scowle, the windes doe blow amaine:
The raged rockes, with rumbling noyse doe rore,
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A Father once, as bookes expresse,
Had sonnes twise sixe, nor more nor lesse:
Ech sonne of children had scores three,
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