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Maddy Prior
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In Sad And Ashy Weeds
In sad and ashy weeds
I sigh, I pine, I grieve, I mourn;
My oats and yellow reeds
I now to jet and ebon turn.
My urgèd eyes,
Like winter skies,
My furrowed cheeks o'erflow.
All heaven knows why
Men mourn as I,
And who can blame my woe?
In sable robes of night
My days of joy apparel'd be,
My sorrows see no light,
My light through sorrows nothing see.
For now my sun
His date hath run,
And from my sphere, doth go
To endless bed
Of folded lead,
And who can blame my woe ?
My flocks I now forsake,
That silly sheep my grief may know.
And lilies loathe to take
That since his fall presume to grow.
I envy air,
Because it dare
Still breathe, and he not so,
Hate earth that doth
Entomb his youth.
And who can blame my woe ?
Now a poor lad, alone,
(Alone how can such sorrow be ?)
Not only men make moan,
But more than men make moan with me :
The gods of greens,
And mountain queens.
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The fairy-circled row.
The muses nine,
The nymphs divine,
Do all condole my woe.
You awful gods of skies!
If shepherds may you question thus.
What d[ei]ty to supply,
Took you this gentle star from us ?
Is Hermes fled ?
Is Cupid dead ?
Doth Sol his seat forego ?
Or Jove his joy
He stole from Troy ?
Or who hath fram'd this woe ?
Did not mine eyes, O heaven !
Adore your light as well before ?
But that amidst you seven.
You fixed have one planet more !
You may well raise,
Now double days
On this sad earth below,
Your powers have won
Another sun.
And who can blame our woe ?
At your great hands I ask
This boon, which you may easily grant,
That, till my utmost mask
Of death, I still may moan his want.
Since his divine
Parts with you shine.
Too bright for us below,
And Earth's sad breast
Entombs the rest,
Yet mine is all the woe.
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