One That Had A Frowarde Husband, Makes Complaynt To Her Mother Poem by Humfrey Gifford

And is there any wight aliue,
That rightly may compare,
Or goe beyond me silly wretch,
In sadnesse and in care?
Some such may be, but this I say,
One must goe farre to seeke,
To finde a woman in this worlde,
Whose griefe to mine is like:
Or hath so iust a cause of moane,
In dumps of deepe despite,
I linger on my loathsome life,
Depriud of all delight.
Men say the Phoenix is a birde,
Whose like cannot bee found,
I am the Phoenix in this worlde,
Of that those care doth wound.
And he that workes me all this woe,
May be the Phoenix well,
Of all enraged senslesse wightes,
That in the earth doe dwell.
I moane not here as Dido did,
Being stryken at the heart,
As woorthy Virgill doeth recorde,
With dint of Cupids dart.
Nor in my playnts some Louer name,
As Sappho did of yore:
But husband is the cause heereof,
Which makes my griefe the more.
For Louers if they like vs not,
We may cast of agayne,
But with our husbandes (good or bad)
Till death we must remayne.
I doe not speake these wordes, as if
His death I did desire,
But rather that it might please God,
His thoughts so to enspire,
That he might vse me as he ought,
Or as I doe deserue,
Since that I him (as duety byndes)
Doe honour, loue, and serue.
And seemes it not desert thinke you?
At his commaund to haue
The beauty greate and other giftes,
that nature to me gaue?
Ist not desert, such one with him
In loyall bed to lie,
As alwayes hath most faythfull byn,
And will be till shee die:
To looke on him with cheerefull face,
to call him Spouse and friend,
To coll and kisse, all this hee hath,
With franke and willing mynde,
And all thinges els as God commmaunds,
And duety doth allowe,
Yet am I dealt with at his handes,
Alas, I know not howe,
Hee thanklesse man, doth ill for good,
Agaynst all right and lawe,
Hee had of me good fruitfull Corne,
And payes mee chaffe and straw,
For meeke and humble curtesie,
Fierce cruelty hee geues,
For loyalty, disloyalty,
And that which most mee grieues,
Is when in sweete and humble sorte,
I come to make my moane,
His heart no more is mollified,
Then is the Marble stone.
The cruell Lyon ready bent,
With pawes and teeth to teare,
When that the silly Hounde doeth yeelde,
His malice doeth forbeare.
When Attalus the Romayne host
Did erst subdue in field,
His heart to mercy was enclinde,
Assoone as they did yeelde.
Blacke Pluto eke the Prince of hell,
Uneasie to bee woone,
When Orpheus had playde on harpe,
His rankour all was done.
By sweetnesse and by curtesie,
What is not wrought alas,
Nerethlesse the sweetenesse Feminine,
Which others all doth passe
Can nothing doe before the eyes,
Of my hardhearted feere,
The more that I submit my selfe,
The straunger is his cheere.
So that in wrongfull cruelty,
And spite he doth excel,
The Lions wilde, the Tyrants stoute,
And monsters eke of hel.
As ofte as I reuolue in mynde
The greatnesse of my harmes,
I thinke how foorth the Fowler goes,
with sweete and pleasant charmes,
To take the birds, which once betrayd,
He eyther killes straight way,
Or keepes them pende in pensiue cage,
That flie no more they may.
And so at first, I taken was,
By his sweete fleering face,
And now depriude of ioy alas:
Am handled in like case.
Now, if the birdes (as some auouch,
Doe curse his keeper still,
In language his, why curse I not,
The Author of my yll.
That griefe doeth euer greater harme,
Which hidden lies in brest,
Then that which to some faithfull friend,
By speaking is exprest,
My sorowes then shall bee reuealde,
Some stedfast friend vnto,
My tongue thereby vnto my heart,
A pleasure greate may doe.
But vnto whom shoulde I disclose
My bondage and my thrall?
Unto my spouse? No surely no,
My gaynes shoulde bee but small,
Alas to whom then shoulde I moane?
Should I some Louer choose,
Who in my sorowes and my griefes,
As partner I might vse?
Occasions great do counsell me
To put this same in vre:
Mine honour and mine honestie,
Forbid such rashnes sure.
Wherefore ye louers al, adew,
Unto some other goe:
I will obserue my vowed fayth,
Though to my greatest foe.
To whome shal I powre forth my plaints?
To you most louing mother?
For they by dutie do belong,
To you, and to none other.
To you I come to seeke reliefe,
With moyst and weeping eies:
Euen as the heart with thirst opprest,
Unto the fountaine hies.
If any salue in all the world,
may serue to cure my wound:
Dame Nature sayes vndoubtedly,
In you it must be found.
Now if some succour may be had,
Assisted let me be,
But if it lie not in your power:
Yet spend some teares with me.
That yours with mine, & mine with yours
Might so keepe moyst the flowre,
That erst proceeded from your wombe,
And wasteth euery houre.