Global Utilities

Mary Wroth's Poetry: An Electronic Edition

Wroth Poem - F7 - The spring now come att last

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Song 1.

The spring now come att last
    to trees, fields, to flowers,
And medowes makes to tast
    his pride, while ſad showers
wch from my eyes do flow
    makes knowne wt cruell paines
    colde winter yett remaines
Noe ſigne of spring I know

The Sunn wch to the Earth
    giues heate, light, and pleaſure,
ioyes in spring, hateth dearth,
    plenty makes his treaſure
His heat to mee is colde,
    his light all darknes is
    ſince I am bar'd of bliſs
I heate nor light beeholde

A sheapherdeſs thus ſayd
    who was wt griefe oprest
for truest loue beetraid
    bard her from quiett rest
And weeping thus ſayd she
    my end aprocheth neere
    now willow must I weare
My fortune ſoe will bee

Wth branches of this tree
    Ile dreſs my haples head
wch shall my wittnes bee
    my hopes in loue ar dead;
My clothes imbroder'd all
    shall bee wt Gyrlands round
ſome ſcater'd, others bound
ſome tide, ſome like to fall

The barck my booke shall bee
    wher dayly I will wright
this tale of haples mee
    true slaue to fortunes spight;
The roote shall bee my bed
    wher nightly I will lye,
    wayling inconstancy
ſince all true loue is dead,

And thes lines I will leaue
    if ſome ſuch louer come
who may them right conſeaue,
    and place them on my tombe
She who still constant lou'd
    now dead wt cruell care
    kild wt vnkind dispaire,
And change, her end heere prou'd
Song 1.

'The Spring now come at last
    To trees, fields, to flowers,
    And meadows makes to taste
    His pride, while sad showers
    Which from my* eyes do flow
    Makes known what cruel pains
    Cold Winter yet remains
    No sign of spring I* know.

The sun which to the earth
    Gives heat, light, and pleasure,
    Joys in spring, hateth dearth,
    Plenty makes his treasure
    His heat to me is cold,
    His light all darkness is
    Since I am barred of bliss
    I heat nor light behold.'

A shepherdess thus said
    Who was with grief oppressed
    For truest love betrayed
    Barred her from quiet rest.
    And weeping, thus said she:
    'My end approacheth near
    Now willow must I wear
    My fortune so will be.

With branches of this tree
    I'll dress my hapless head
    Which shall my witness be
    My hopes in love are dead;
    My clothes embroidered all
    Shall be with garlands round
    Some scattered, others bound,
    Some tied, some like to fall.

The bark my book shall be
    Where daily I will write
    This tale of hapless me
    True slave to fortune's spite;
    The root shall be my bed
    Where nightly I will lie,
    Wailing inconstancy
    Since all true love is dead.

And these lines I will leave
    If some such lover come
    Who may them right conceive,
    And place them on my tomb:
    "She who still constant loved
    Now dead with cruel care
    Killed with unkind despair,
    And change, her end here proved".'


A variation on RS song 3: 'Love not who have not loved', which, as Roberts notes, has a male shepherd lamenting his lost love: the resemblance is greatest at the final stanza:

    This said a shepherd, once
    With weights of change oppressed,
    For he had lost at once
    What ever he loved best;
    And saw, while he did mourn,
    The world's fair looks renewed
    While he a state past rued
    Which never would return.
    Love not who have not loved,
    And who do love, love no more.

This is itself a variation on the Pervigilium Veneris, a Latin poem C. 2nd century which was rediscovered and made popular throughout Europe in the late 16th century.
As a pastoral song, though, it relates to the immense popularity of pastoral in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, manifested especially, in relation to Wroth, in Philip Sidney's work, especially within Arcadia.

'my' = 'mine' in P.
'I' = 'we' in P.
Song. I.

The Spring now come at laſt
    To Trees, Fields, to Flowres,
And Meadowes makes to taſte
    His pride, while ſad ſhowres
Which from mine eyes doe flow
    Makes knowne with cruell paines,
    Cold Winter yet remaines,
No ſigne of Spring wee knowe.

The Sunne which to the Earth
    Giues heate, light, and pleaſure,
Ioyes in Spring hateth Dearth,
    Plenty makes his Treaſure.
His heate to me is colde,
    His light all darkneſſe is,
    Since I am barr'd of bliſſe,
I heate, nor light behold

A Shepherdeſſe thus ſaid,
    Who was with griefe oppreſt,
For trueſt Loue betrayd,
    Barrd her from quiet rest:
And weeping thus, ſaid ſhee,
    My end approacheth neere,
    Now Willow muſt I weare,
My fortune ſo will bee.

With Branches of this tree
    Ile dreſſe my hapleſſe head,
Which ſhall my witneſſe bee,
    My hopes in Loue are dead:
My cloathes imbroder'd all,
    Shall be with Garlands round,
    Some ſcatter'd, others bound;
Some tyde, ſome like to fall.

The Barke my Booke ſhall bee,
    Where dayly I will write,
This tale of haples mee,
    True ſlaue to Fortunes ſpite.
The roote ſhall be my bedd,
    Where nightly I will lye
    Wailing inconſtancy,
Since all true loue is dead.

And theſe Lines I will leaue,
    If ſome ſuch Louer come,
Who may them right conceiue,
    and place them on my Tombe:
She who ſtill conſtant lou'd
    Now dead with cruell care,
    Kill'd with vnkind Diſpaire,
And change, her end heere prou'd.
Song 1

'The spring now come at last
    To trees, fields, to flowers,
    And meadows makes to taste
    His pride, while sad showers
    Which from mine eyes do flow
    Makes known what cruel pains
    Cold winter yet remains
    No sign of spring we know.

The sun which to the earth
    Gives heat, light, and pleasure,
    Joys in spring, hateth dearth,
    Plenty makes his treasure
    His heat to me is cold,
    His light all darkness is
    Since I am barred of bliss
    I heat nor light behold.'

A shepherdess thus said
    Who was with grief oppressed
    For truest love betrayed
    Barred her from quiet rest.
    And weeping, thus said she:
    'My end approacheth near
    Now willow must I wear
    My fortune so will be.

With branches of this tree
    I'll dress my hapless head
    Which shall my witness be
    My hopes in love are dead;
    My clothes embroidered all
    Shall bee with garlands round
    Some scattered, others bound,
    Some tied, some like to fall.

The bark my book shall be
    Where daily I will write
    This tale of hapless me
    True slave to fortune's spite;
    The root shall be my bed
    Where nightly I will lie,
    Wailing inconstancy
    Since all true love is dead.

And these lines I will leave
    If some such lover come
    Who may them right conceive,
    And place them on my tomb:
    "She who still constant loved
    Now dead with cruel care
    Killed with unkind despair,
    And change, her end here proved".'



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