Melancholike humours IN VERSES OF DIuerse natures set downe by Nich Breton Gent. LONDON ¶ Printed by RICHARD BRADOCKE 1600. TO THE LOVER OF good studies and fauourer of good actions Master Thomas Blount heauens blessing and earths happinesse SIR my knowledge of your good iudgement in the diuersity of humours and your disposition to that best melancholie that can not run madde with trifles hath made me vpon the gathering together of certain odde pieces of Poetry to offer my labours te your patience and my loue to your seruice They are all waters of one spring but they runne through many kinds of earth whereof they giue a kinde of tang in their taste Such as they be I leaue them to the kindnesse of your acceptation and my selfe to your like commaundement And so loath to vse ceremonious cōplements in the affection of a poore friend in humble thankefulnesse for your manie vndeserued fauours I rest Yours very much to commaund N. B. ¶ To the Reader PASQVILL hauing been long in his dumps in somewhat better then a browne studie hath brought forth the fruites of a fewe melancholike humours which chiefely he commendeth to spirits of his own nature full of melancholy and as neere Bedlem as Mooregate a figure in the fields to be easily disciphered To be short and to growe towards an ende ere I haue wel begun I wil tel you the gētlemās brains were much troubled as you may see by his perplexities but with studying how to make one line leuell with another in more rime then perhaps some will thinke reason with much adoe about nothing hee hath made a piece of worke as little worth He that can giue him less◠commendation let him vse his arte For mine owne part I haue taken paine to write his Will which he hath sent to the worlde to like as it list According to whose will I leaue it entreating no man to wreste his will to any thing further then may stand with his pleasure but to speake indifferently of all things as hee findes cause and so I rest Your friende N. B. In Authorem THOV that wouldst finde the habit of true passion And see a minde attir'd in perfect straines Not wearing moodes as gallants doe a fashion In these pide times only to shewe their braines Looke here on Bretons worke the master print Where such perfections to the life doe rise If they seeme wry to such as looke asquint The fault 's not in the obiect but their eyes For as one comming with a laterall viewe Vnto a cunning piece wrought perspectiue Wants facultie to make a censure true So with this Authors Readers will it thriue Which being eyed directly I diuine His proofe their praise will meete as in this line BEN IOHNSON See and say nothing OH my thoughts keepe in your words Least their passage do repent yee Knowing Fortune still affordes Nothing but may discontent yee If your Saint be like the Sunne Sit not yee in Phoebus chaire Least when once the horses runne Yee be Dedalus his heire If your labours well deserue Let your silence onely grace them And in patience hope preserue That no fortune can deface them If your friend doe growe vnkinde Grieue but doe not seeme to showe it For a patient heart shall finde Comfort when the soule shall know it If your trust be all betrai'd Trie but trust no more at all But in soule be not dismai'd Whatsoeuer doe befall In your selues your selues enclose Keepe your secrecies vnseene Least when ye your selues disclose Yee had better neuer beene And what euer be your state Doe not languish ouerlong Least you finde it all too late Sorrow be a deadly song And be comforted in this If your passions be concealed Crosse or comfort bale or blisse T is the best is not reuealed So my deerest thoughts adieu Harke whereto my soule doth call yee Be but secret wise and true Feare no euill can befall yee ¶ What is hell WHAT is the place that some do paint for hell A lake of horrour for the life of man Is it not then the death wherein I dwell That knowes no ioy since first my life began What are the diuels Spirits of tormenting What else are they that vexe me in each vaine With wretched thoughts my wofull spirit tempting Or else perplex mee in an after-paine What is the fire but an effect of sinne That keepes my heart in an vnkindly heat How long shall I this life continue in Till true repentance mercy doe entreate And 〈◊〉 euen at the latest breath Saue mee sweet Lord yet frō the secōd death ¶ Mal content IF I desir'd vnto the world to liue Or sought in soule to serue the golden God If I did homage to an idole giue Or with the wicked wisht to haue abode Then well might Iustice lay her sword vpon mee In due correction of my crooked hart But shall I liue in soule thus woe begon mee That seeke in faith to serue the better part Ah wretched soule why dost thou murmur so It is thy crosse and thou art borne to beare it Through hellish griefs thy hart to heauē must go For patience crowne if thou wilt liue to wear it Then rest with this since faith is vertues friend Death ends distresse heauen makes a happy end ¶ A dole full passion OH tyred heart too full of sorrowes In night-like daies despairing morrowes How canst thou thinke so deepely greeued To hope to liue to be relieued Good fortune hath all grace 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 And cruell care hath too much torne thee Vnfaithfull friends do all deceiue thee Acquaintance all vnkindly leaue thee Beauty out of her booke doth blot thee And loue hath vtterly forgot thee Patience doth but to passion moue thee While only honour liues to loue thee Thine enemies all ill deuise thee Thy friends but little good aduise thee And they who most doe duety owe thee Doe seeme as though they doe not knowe thee Thus pittie weepes to looke vpon thee To see how thou art woe begon thee And while these passions seeke to spill thee Death but attends the houre to kill thee And since no thoughte is comming to thee That any way may comfort doe thee Dispose thy thoughtes as best may please thee That Heauen of all thy Hell may ease thee ¶ A Testament vpon the passion TO care that crucifies my heart My sighes and sobbes I doe bequeath And to my sorrowes deepest smart The latest gaspe that I doe breath To Fortune I bequeath my folly To giue to such as seeke her grace To faithlesse friends that fortune wholly That brought mee in this heauie case To beauty I bequeath mine age To loue the hate of wit and sense To patience but the cure of rage To honour vertues patience Mine enemies I do forgiue And to my friends I giue my loue And wish vngratefull hearts may liue But like ingratitude to proue To pitty I bequeath my teares To fill her eyes when they be dry To faith
the fearelesse thoughts of feares To giue to life to let me die My care I doe bequeath to death To cut the threades that thoughts do spinne And at my latest gaspe of breath To heauen my soule to hell my sinne ¶ A fantasticke solemne humour SOVND good reason sound my sorrowes Equall them with any liuing Finde the worst of all her giuing When she most her mischiefe borrowes Leaue not patience all perplexed Where no passions are appeased But her torments neuer eased Keepe her spirit too much vexed Tell oh tell the truest story That hath long time bene described Whereto iustly is ascribed Sorrowes pride and death his glory Loue bred in discretions blindnesse Shadowes for the sunne affecting Nothing but nothing effecting Shewes the crosse of Natures kindnesse Wit bewitcht with wanton beauty Lost the raines of reasons bridle And in folly all too idle Brake the bands of reasons duty Time misspent in follies trifles With repentance sorrow feeding In the rules of reasons reeding Findes them nothing else but nifles Care yet seeking to recouer Indiscretions heauie losses Found in casting vp my crosses Sorrow only left the louer ¶ A briefe of sorrowe MVSE of sadnesse neere deaths fashion Too neere madnesse write my passion Paines possesse mee sorrowes spill mee Cares distresse mee all would kill mee Hopes haue faild mee Fortune foild mee Feares haue quaild me all haue spoild mee Woes haue worne mee sighes haue soakt mee Thoughts haue torne mee all haue broke mee Beauty strooke me loue hath catcht mee Death hath tooke mee all dispatcht mee ¶ A solemne saâ—cy SORROVV in my heart breedeth A Cocatrices neast Where euery young bird feedeth Vpon my hearts vnrest Where euery pecke they giue mee VVhich euery houre they doe Vnto such paine they driue mee I knowe not what to doe Oh broode vnhapp'ly hatched Of such a cursed kinde Where death and sorrowe matched Liue but to kill the minde Wordes torments are but trifles That but conceits confounde And Natures griefes but nifles Vnto the spirits wounde They are but cares good morrowes That passions can declare While my hearts inward sorrowes Are all without compare Fortune she seekes to sweare mee To all may discontent me Yet sayes she doth forbeare mee She doth no more torment mee Beauty she doth retaine mee In scarce a fauours tittle And though she doe disdeigne mee She thinkes my griefe too little Loue falles into a laughing At reasons little good While sorrow with her quaffing Is drunke with my heart blood But let her drinke and spare not Vntill my heart be dry And let loue laugh I care not My hope is I shall dy And death shall only tell My froward fortunes fashion That nearest vnto hell Was found the louers passion ¶ A solemne sonnet FORTVNE hath writ characters on my heart As full of crosses as the skinne can holde Which tell of torments tearing euery part While death and sorrowe doe my fate vnfolde Patience sits leaning like a pining soule That had no heart to thinke of hopes reliefe VVhile fruitlesse cares discomfort doe enroule Within the ground of neuer ending griefe Thoughts flie about as all in feare confounded Reason growne mad with too much mal content Loue passion-rent to see his patience wounded VVith dreadfull terrors of despaires intent While care concludes in comforts ouerthrowne WheÌ„ death can speak my passioÌ„s shal be showne ¶ An extreame Passion OVT of the depth of deadly griefe tormenting day and night A wounded heart and wretched soule depriu'd of all delight Where neuer thought of comfort came that passioÌ„ might appease Or by the smallest sparke of hope might giue the smallest ease Let me intreat that solemne Muse that serues but sorrowes turne In ceasselesse sighes and endlesse sobs to helpe my soule to mourne But oh what thought beyoÌ„d al thought hath thought to think vpon Where patience findes her greatest power in passions ouergon That neere the doore of natures death in dolefull notes doth dwell In horrors fits that will describe my too much figur'd hell What want what wrong what care what crosse may crucifie a hart But day and howre I doe endure in all and euery part Want to sustaine the bodies neede wrong to distract the minde Where want makes wit and reason both to goe against their kinde Care to deuise for comforts helpe but so by fortune crost As kils the heart to cast the eye on nought but labour lost Desire to liue in spite of death yet still in liuing dying And so a greater death then death by want of dying trying Oh hell of hels if euer earth such horror can afford Where such a world of helpelesse cares doe lay the heart aboord ' No day no night no thought no dreame but of that doleful nature That may amaze or sore affright a most afflicted creature Friends turnd to foes foes vse their force and fortune in her pride Shaks hands with fate to make my soule the weight of sorrow bide Care brings in sicknes sicknes pain paine with patience passion With biting in most bitter griefes brings feature out of fashion Where brawn falne cheeks heart scalding sighs dimmed eyes with teares Doe shewe in lifes Anatomy what burthen sorrowe beares Where all day long in helplesse cares all hopelesse of reliefe I wish for night I might not see the obiectes of my griefe And when night comes woes keep my wits in such a waking vaine That I could wish though to my griefe that it were day againe Thus daies are nights which nights are daies which daies are like those nights That to my passioÌ„s seÌ„se preseÌ„t but only sorrows sights Which to the eye but of the minde of misery appeare To fill the heart of forlorne hope too full of heauie cheare Oh hart how canst thou hold so long and art not broke ere this When all thy strings are but the straines that coÌ„fort strikes amisse Yet must thou make thy musicke still but of that mournfull straine Where sorrowe in the sound of death doth shew her sweetest vain Or where her Muses all consent in their consort to trie Their sweetest musicke in desire to die and can not die The Pellican that kils her selfe her young ones for to feede Is pleas'd to dy that they may liue that suck when she doth bleede But while I in those cares consume that would my spirit kill Nought liues by me when I must die to feede but sorrowes will The Hart that 's huÌ„ted all day long hath sport yet with the houÌ„ds And happly beats off many a dogge before his deadly wounds But my poore heart is hunted still with such a cruell cry As in their dogged humours liue while I alone must die The Swan that sings before her death doth shew that she is pleas'd To knowe that death will not be long in helping the diseas'd But my poore Swanlike soule alas hath no such power to sing Because she knowes not when my death will make my care a king What shall I say
but only say I knowe not what to say So many torments teare my heart and tugge it euery way My Sunne is turnd into a shade or else mine eyes are blinde That sorrowes cloude makes all seeme darke that comes into my minde My youth to age or else because my comforts are so colde My sorrowe makes me in conceit to be decrepit olde My hopes to feares or else because my fortunes are forlorne My fancie makes me make my selfe vnto my selfe a scorne My life to death or else because my heart is so perxplexed I finde my selfe but liuing dead to feele my soule so vexed For what is here that earth can yeeld in pleasures sweetest vaine But in the midst of all my cares doth still increase my paine While Epicures are ouerglut I ly and starue for foode Because my conscience can not thriue vpon ill gotten good While other swimme in choyce of silkes I sit alone in ragges Because I can not fitte the time to fill the golden bagges While other are bedeckt in golde in pearle and pretious stone I sigh to see they haue so much and I can light of none Not that I enuie their estate but wish that God would giue Some comfort to my carefull hope wherby my heart might liue Some please themselues in choyce of sports in trifles and in toies While my poore feeble spirit feedes of nothing but annoyes Some haue their houses stately built and gorgeous to beholde While in a cottage bare and poore I bide the bitter colde Some haue their chariots and their horse to beare them to and fro While I am glad to walke on foote and glad I can doe so Some haue their musickes hermony to please their idle eares While of the song of sorrow still my soule the burthen beares Some haue their choyce of all perfumes that natures arte can giue While sinne doth stinke so in my soule as makes me loath to liue They like the wielders of the world command and haue their will While I a weakling in the world am slaue to sorrow still The Owle that makes the night her day delights yet in the darke But I am forc't to play the Owle that haue beene bred a Larke The Eagle from the lowest vale can mount the lofty skie But I am falne downe from the hill and in the vale must die The Sparrow in a Princes house can finde a place to builde I scarce can finde out any place that will my comfort yeelde The little Wrenne doth finde a worme the little Finch a seede While my poore heart doth hunger still and finds but little feede The Bee doth finde her hony flower the Butterflie her leafe But I can finde a world of corne that yeeldes not me a sheafe The horse the Oxe the silly Asse that tugge out all the day At night come home and take their rest and lay their worke away While my poore heart both day and night in passions ouertoild By ouerlabour of my braine doth finde my spirit spoiled The winds doe blowe away the clowds that would obscure the Sun And how all glorious is the sky when once the stormes are done But in the heauē of my harts hope where my loues light doth shine I nothing see but clouds of cares or else my sunne decline The earth is watred smoth'd and drest to keepe her gardens gay While my poore heart in woefull thoughtes must wither still away The Sea is sometime at a calme where shippes at anchor ride And fishes on the sunny shore doe play on euery side But my poore heart in sorrowes seas is sicke of such a qualme As while these stormy tempests holde can neuer looke for calme So that I see each bird and beast the sea the earth the sky All sometime in their pleasures liue while I alone must die Now thinke if all this be too true as would it were not so If any creature liue on earth that doe like sorrow knowe Nay aske of sorrow euen her selfe to thinke how I am wounded If she be not to see my woes within her selfe confounded Or say no figure can suffice my sorrowes frame to fashion Where patiēce thus hath shew'd her selfe beyōd her selfe in passion Par nulla figura dolori nec dolor meo A solemne farewell to the world OH forlorne fancy whereto dost thou liue To weary out the senses with vnrest Hopes are but cares that but discomforts giue While only fooles doe clime the Phoenix nest To heart sicke soules all ioyes are but a iest Thou dost in vain but striue against the streame With blinded eyes to see the sunny beame Die with desire abandond from delight Thy weary winter lasteth all the yeare Say to thy selfe that darknesse is the light Wherein doth nothing but thy death appeare While wit and sense in sorrowes heauy cheare Findes thee an humour but vnkindly bredde Of hopes illusions in too weake a head Fortune affrightes thee with a thousand feares While folly feedes thee with abuse of wit And while thy force in fainting passion weares Patience is ready to increase the fit Where agonies in their extreames doe sit So that each way thy soule is so perplexed As better die then liue to be so vexed Say patience somewhat doe asswage thy paine Prolonged cures are too vncomfortable And where that care doth neuer comfort gaine The state alasse mustneedes be miserable Where sorrowes labours are so lamentable That silence saies that to the soule complains Concealed sorrowes are the killing paines Then doe not ceasse to sigh and sobbe thy fill Bleede in the teares of true loues liuing blood Shewe how vnkindnesse seekes the heart to kill That hides a Buzzard in a Falcons hoode Feede not thy selfe with misconceipted good Better to starue then in a sugred pill To taste the poison of the spirits ill But if thou canst content thee with thy life And wilt endure a double death to liue If thou canst beare that bitter kinde of strife Where crosse conceipts but discontents do giue If to this ende thou canst thine humour driue And cares true patience can command thee so Giue mee then leaue to tell thee what I knowe I knowe too well that all too JOHg haue tryed That earth containeth not that may content thee Sorrowe will so beset thee on each side That wit nor reason can the thought inuent thee But that will some way serue for to torment thee Hope wil deceiue thee happinesse goe by thee Fortune will faile thee and the world defie thee Beauty will blinde thine eyes bewitch thine heart Confound thy senses and commaund thy will Scorne thy desire not looke on thy desart Disdaine thy seruice quite thy good with ill And make no care thy very soule to kill Time will outgoe thee sorrowe onertake thee And death a shadow of a substance make thee I know this world will neuer be for thee Conscience must carry thee another way Another world must be for thee and mee Where happie thoughts must make their holiday While