A Dumpe By His Friende. G. C. Poem by Humfrey Gifford

My heauy heart in dolours drownde,
Consumes and pines away:
And for me wreth, nought can be found,
To cause my cares decay.
Yee eyes of mine, helpe to bewayle,
Powre foorth your brinish teares,
To rue, alas, his wretched state,
In whom no ioy appeares,


How should I wretch take any rest,
How can my heart feele ioy,
When as the wight, that loues mee best,
Lyes plundged in annoy?
Whereto serue teares, but to bewayle,
The losse of such a friend:
Weepe eies, alas, weepe on your fill,
And neuer make an end.


His troubled state, if to redresse,
The spending of my blood:
Or that small pelfe that I possesse,
Could doe him any good.
Then should your eies somtimes permit,
Mee silly wretch to sleepe,
But out alas, it may not bee,
Wherefore cease not to weepe.


Such inward griefe doth mee assayle,
Through thought of his estate:
That if I long of succour fayle,
All helpe will come too late:
O sacred loue, to cure these woes,
Use thou some speedie meanes:
Or els, alas, with some short death,
Dispatch mee of these paines.