To His Most Faythfull Friend Poem by Humfrey Gifford

A thing most straunge to tell, of late did chaunce to me:
whiles yt I tooke my pen in had, to writ my mind to thee,
As I had thought in hast to pach a verse or two,
Without regarde, as common friends, accustomd oft to doe:
I could not for my life, mine eies so waking keepe,
But that a sodain slumber came, which made mee fal asleep,
In dreame I seemde to see, appeare before mine eine,
A comely Lady well be seene, attirde in decent wise,
Most modest were her lookes, most cheerefull eke her face,
Me thought therin was picturd out, a worthy matros grace.
O thanklesse wretch, shee said, and canst thou so neglect
My worthy lawes? is there wt thee of frends no more respect?
Dost know to whome thou writest? is he a common frende?
Suffiseth it in comon sort, that thou shouldst shew thy mind.
Hath his desarts deserude of thee no better meede?
Is this due guerdon for yt loue, which did from him proceed?
In that he hath in deedes, byn alwaies friend to thee,
Let him peceiue by friendly words, thee thankful stil to be.
He lookes not for thy deeds, he knowes thy power is smal,
And wilt thou then depriue him, wretch, of words, of deeds & al?
Brute beasts requite good turnes, it cannot be denied,
Wilt thou the be vngrateful which hast reaso for thy guid?
Shal friendship dwell in beasts, and men be found vnkinde?
Shal they for loue, shew loue agayn, & thou forget thy friend?
With that shee gaue a becke, and bad me to awake,
And said, doe shew thy thankful mind, & so requitall make.
Herewith shee did depart, my slumber past away,
I felt my cheeks bedewd wt tears, through words ye she did say
Her bitter sharpe rebukes, did make me muse a space,
Chiefly in that they did proceede, out from so fayre a face.
But then I cald to minde, that Gratitude she was,
That thakful Dame whose custom is fro friend to friend to passe.
I tooke my pen in hand, with purpose to declare
The Circumstance of this my dreame, wh cloyd my hed with care,
Herein also I thought her precepts to obey,
And al the plot of thy deserts, most largely to display,
But when my dreame was done, I found such litle store:
Of paper, that I could not haue, wherin to write the more.