Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE COMPLAINT OF A LOVER FORSAKEN OF HIS LOVE, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE COMPLAINT OF A LOVER FORSAKEN OF HIS LOVE, by                    
First Line: A poor soule sate sighing by a sicamore tree
Last Line: "thou dost loth me, -- I love thee, though cause of my death"
Subject(s): Love - Unrequited;unfaithfulness; Infidelity;adultery;inconstancy


A poor soule sate sighing by a sicamore tree,
O willow, willow, willow;
His hand on his bosome, his head on his knee,
O willow, willow, willow;
O willow, willow, willow;
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland.
He sigh'd in his singing, and, after each groane,
"Adue to all pleasure, my true love is gone.
Oh, false is she turned; untrue she doth prove;
She renders me nothing, but hate for my love.
Oh, pitty me" (cride he), "you lovers each one,
Her heart's hard as marble, she rues not my moane."
The cold streames ran by him, his eyes wept apace,
The salt teares fell from him, which softned the stone.
"Let no body blame me, -- her scornes I doe prove, --
She was borne to be false, and I dye for her love.
O that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard, --
My true love rejecting without all regard!
Let Love no more boast him, in pallace or bowre,
For women are trothlesse and fleet in an houre.
But what helps complaining? in vain I complaine;
I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine.
Come, all you forsaken, and sit downe by me,
He that plaineth of his false love, mine's falser than she.
The willow wreath weare I since my love did fleet;
A garland for lovers forsaken most meet."
"Low layde by my sorrow, begot by disdaine,
Against her, too cruel, still, still I complaine:
O Love too injurious! to wound my poore heart,
To suffer her triumph, and joy in my smart.
O willow, willow, willow, the willow garland,
So hang it, friends, ore me in grave where I lye:
In grave where I rest me, hang this to the view
Of all that do know her, to blaze her untrue:
With these words ingraven, as epitaph meete,
"Heere lyes one drunke poyson for potion most sweete.'
Though she thus unkindly have scorned my love,
And carelessly smiles at the sorrows I prove;
I cannot against her unkindly exclaime,
Cause once well I lovde her and honourede her name:
The name of her sounded so sweet in mine eare, It raisde my heart lightly -- the
As then 'twas my comfort, it now is my griefe,
It now brings me anguish; then, brought me reliefe.
Farewel, faire false-hearted, plaints end with my breath,
Thou dost loth me, -- I love thee, though cause of my death."







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