Lady Surrey's Lament For Her Absent Lord Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


Good ladies you that have your pleasure in exileA
Step in your foot come take a place and mourn with me a whileA
And such as by their lords do set but little priceB
Let them sit still it skills them not what chance come on the diceB
But ye whom Love hath bound by order of desireC
To love your lords whose good deserts none other would requireC
Come you yet once again and set your foot by mineD
Whose woeful plight and sorrows great no tongue may well defineD
My love and lord alas in whom consists my wealthE
Hath fortune sent to pass the seas in hazard of his healthE
That I was wont for to embrace contented mind'sF
Is now amid the foaming floods at pleasure of the windsG
There God him well preserve and safely me him sendH
Without which hope my life alas were shortly at an endH
Whose absence yet although my hope doth tell me plainI
With short return he comes anon yet ceaseth not my painI
The fearful dreams I have oft times they grieve me soJ
That then I wake and stand in doubt if they be true or noJ
Sometime the roaring seas me seems they grow so highK
That my sweet lord in danger great alas doth often lieK
Another time the same doth tell me he is comeL
And playing where I shall him find with T his little sonM
So forth I go apace to see that liefsome sightN
And with a kiss me thinks I say Now welcome home my knightN
Welcome my sweet alas the stay of my welfareO
Thy presence bringeth forth a truce betwixt me and my careO
Then lively doth he look and salveth me againP
And saith My dear how is it now that you have all this painI
Wherewith the heavy cares that heap'd are in my breastQ
Break forth and me dischargeth clean of all my huge unrestQ
But when I me awake and find it but a dreamR
The anguish of my former woe beginneth more extremeR
And me tormenteth so that uneath may I findS
Some hidden where to steal the grief of my unquiet mindS
Thus every way you see with absence how I burnT
And for my wound no cure there is but hope of good returnT
Save when I feel by sour how sweet is felt the moreU
It doth abate some of my pains that I abode beforeU
And then unto myself I say When that we two shall meetV
But little time shall seem this pain that joy shall be so sweetV
Ye winds I you convert in chiefest of your rageW
That you my lord me safely send my sorrows to assuageW
And that I may not long abide in such excessX
Do your good will to cure a wight that liveth in distressX

Henry Howard


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