ELEGIA 12Tabllas quas miserat execratur, quod amica noctem negabat
Bewaile my chaunce, the sad booke is returned,
This day denyall hath my sport adjourned.
Presages are not vaine, when she departed
Nape by stumbling on the thre-shold started.
Going out againe passe forth the dore more wisely
And som-what higher beare thy foote precisely.
Hence luck-lesse tables, funerall wood be flying
And thou the waxe stuft full with notes denying,
Which I thinke gather'd from cold hemlocks flower
Wherein bad hony CorsickeBees did power.
Yet as if mixt with red leade thou wert ruddy,
That colour rightly did appeare so bloudy.
As evill wood throwne in the high-waies lie,
Be broake with wheeles of chariots passing by.
And him that hew'd you out for needfull uses
Ile prove had hands impure with all abuses.
Poore wretches on the tree themselves did strangle,
There sat the hang-man for mens neckes to angle.
To hoarse scrich-owles foule shadowes it allowes,
Vultures and furies nestled in the boughes.
To these my love I foolishly committed
And then with sweete words to my Mistrisse fitted.
More fitly had they wrangling bondes contained
From barbarous lips of some Atturney strained.
Among day bookes and billes they had lame better
In which the Merchant wayles his banquerout debter.
Your name approves you made for such like things,
The number two no good divining bringes.
Angry, I pray that rotten age you wrackes
And sluttish white-mould overgrowe the waxe.