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Çàðàç íà ñàéò³ - 1
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George Gascoigne

Ïðî÷èòàíèé : 133


Òâîð÷³ñòü | Á³îãðàô³ÿ | Êðèòèêà

In prayse of Bridges, nowe Lady Sandes

In  Court  who  so  demaundes  what  Dame  doth  most  excell,
For  my  conceyt  I  must  needes  say,  faire  Bridges  beares  ye  bell:
Upon  whose  lively  cheeke,  to  proove  my  judgement  true,
The  Rose  and  Lillie  seeme  to  strive  for  equall  change  of  hewe:
And  therewithall  so  well  her  graces  all  agree,
No  frowning  cheere  dare  once  presume  in  hir  sweete  face  to  bee.
Although  some  lavishe  lippes,  which  like  some  other  best,
Wyll  saye  the  blemishe  on  hir  browe  disgraceth  all  the  rest.
Thereto  I  thus  replie,  God  wotte  they  lisle  know,
The  hidden  cause  of  that  mishap,  nor  how  the  harme  dyd  grow.
For  when  Dame  nature  first  had  framde  hir  heavenly  face,
And  thoroughly  bedecked  it,  with  goodly  gleames  of  grace:
It  lyked  hir  so  well:  Lo  here  (quod  shee)  a  peece,
For  perfect  shape  that  passeth  all  Apelles  worke  in  Greece.
This  bayte  may  chaunce  to  catche  the  greatest  God  of  love,
Or  mighty  thundring  Jove  himself  that  rules  the  roast  above.
But  out,  alas,  those  wordes  were  vaunted  all  in  vaine,
And  some  unsene  were  present  there  (poore  Bridges)  to  thy  pain.
For  Cupide  craftie  boye,  close  in  a  corner  stoode,
Not  blyndfold  then,  to  gaze  on  hir,  I  gesse  it  dyd  him  good.
Yet  when  he  felt  the  flame  gan  kindle  in  his  brest,
And  hard  dame  nature  boast  by  hir,  to  breake  him  of  his  rest,
His  hote  newe  chosen  love,  he  chaunged  into  hate,
And  sodainly  with  mighty  mace,  gan  rap  hir  on  the  pate.
It  grieved  Nature  much  to  see  the  quell  deede:
Me  seemes  I  see  hir  how  she  wept,  to  see  hir  dearling  blede.  
Well  yet  (quod  she)  this  hurt  shall  have  some  helpe  I  trowe,  
And  quicke  with  skin  she  covered  it,  that  whiter  is  than  snowe.
Wherewith  Dan  Cupid  fled,  for  feare  of  further  flame,
When  angel  like  he  saw  hir  shine,  whom  he  had  smit  with  shame.
Lo  thus  was  Bridges  hurt,  in  cradel  of  hir  kind,
The  coward  Cupid  brake  hir  brow,  to  wreke  his  wounded  mind,
The  skar  styll  there  remaines,  no  force,  there  let  it  be,
There  is  no  clowde  that  can  eclipse,  so  bright  a  sunne  as  she.

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