August 31, 2006

What plague is greater than the grief of mind? The grief of mind that eats in every vein; In every vein that leaves such clots

Doth sorrow fret thy soul? O direful sprite. Doth pleasure feed thy heart? O blessed man. Hast thou been happy once? O heavy plight. Are

Were I a king I might command content; Were I obscure unknown would be my cares, And were I dead no thoughts should me torment,

If women could be fair and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm not fickle, still, I would not marvel that they make

My meaning is to work What wonders love hath wrought, Wherewith I muse, why men of wit Have love so dearly bought. For love is

If care or skill could conquer vain desire, Or Reason’s reins my strong affection stay: There should my sighs to quiet breast retire, And shun

Love is a discord and a strange divorce Betwixt our sense and rest, by whose power, As mad with reason, we admit that force Which

Ev’n as the wax doth melt, or dew consume away Before the sun, so I, behold, through careful thoughts decay; For my best luck leads

I am not as I seem to be, For when I smile I am not glad; A thrall, although you count me free, I, most

A crown of bays shall that man wear, That triumphs over me; For black and tawny will I wear, Which mourning colours be. The more

The trickling tears that fall along my cheeks, The secret sighs that show my inward grief, The present pains perforce that Love aye seeks, Bid

Fain would I sing, but fury makes me fret, And Rage hath sworn to seek revenge of wrong; My mazed mind in malice so is

Fram’d in the front of forlorn hope past all recovery, I stayless stand, to abide the shock of shame and infamy. My life, through ling’ring

The following letter by Edward de Vere was prefixed to Thomas Bedingfield’s translation of Cardanus Comfort, published in 1573. The book has been referred to

The Earl of Oxford to the Reader of Bedingfield’s Cardanus’ Comfort. The labouring man that tills the fertile soil, And reaps the harvest fruit, hath