A Fancy
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 alone.
But if the smalest sweete
Be mixt with all his sowre;
If in the day, the moneth, the yeare,
He finde one lightsome hower,
Then rest he by himself;
He is noe mate for me,
Whose hope is falen, whose succor voyde,
Whose hart his death must be.
Yet not the wishèd death,
That hathe noe plainte nor lacke,
Which, making free the better parte,
Is onely nature's sacke.
Oh me! that wer too well,
My death is of the minde,
Which alwayes yeeldès extreame paines,
Yet keepes the worst behind.
As one that lives in shewe
But inwardly doth die,
Whose knowledge is a bloody field
Wheare all hope slaine doth lie;
Whose harte the aulter is,
Whose spirit, the sacrifize
Unto the Powers whome to appease
Noe sorrowes can sufize.
Whose fancies are like thornes,
On which I goe by night,
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poem by Sir Edward Dyer
Added by Poetry Lover
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