A Dolefull Dumpe Poem by Humfrey Gifford

Who so doth mone, and lackes a mate,
to bee partaker of his woe,
And will discourse of his estate,
Let him and I together goe:
And I will make him graunt in fine,
his griefe to bee farre lesse then mine.


Perhappes hee wil, to win the best,
paint forth what pangs oppresse his minde.
How that hee feeles no quiet rest:
how fortune is to him vnkind:
And how hee pines in secreet griefe,
and findes no meanes for his reliefe.


These and such like a number will,
alleadge to witnes their distresse,
Some rolle vp stones against the hill,
with Sisiphus; some eke expresse,
That like to Tantalus they fare,
and some with Yxion doe compare.


But I not onely feele the smart,
of al those euilles rehearsed before:
But tast the torment in my heart,
of thousand times as many more:
So that the worst of their annoyes,
Is best and chiefest of my ioyes.


I neuer fed on costly meate,
Since that this griefe opprest mee first:
Dole is the dainties that I eate,
And trickling teares doe coole my thirst:
Care is my caruing knife, God wot,
Which dayly seekes to cut my throte.


Muse not that heere I secret keepe
The cause that first procurde my griefe:
What doeth it boote a man to weepe,
When that his teares finde no reliefe?
Contentes mee onely, this repose,
That death ere long will end my woes.