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George Turberville

From Wikiquote

George Turberville (or Turbervile; about 1540 – before 1597) was an English poet.

Epitaphs, Epigrams, Songs and Sonnets (1567)

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"The Louer to his Ladie that gased much vp to the Skies"
  • My Girle, thou gazest much
    vpon the golden Skies:
    Would I were Heauen, I would behold
    thée then with all mine eies.
    • Translating Anthologia Palatina, VII, 669
    • Modernised:
      "The Lover to his Lady, that gazed much up to the Skies"
      My Girl, thou gazest much
        Upon the golden skies:
      Would I were Heaven, I would behold
        Thee then with all mine eyes.
"To his Ladie, that by hap when he kissed hir and made hir lip bleed, controld him and tooke disdaine"
  • Discharge thy dole,
    Thou subtile soule,
    It standes in little stéede
    To cursse the kisse
    That causer is
    Thy chirrie lip doth bléede.
    Thy bloud ascends
    To make amends
    For domage thou hast donne:
    For by the same
    I felt a flame
    More scorching than the Sunne.
    Thou reftst my harte
    By secret Arte,
    My sprites were quite subdude:
    My Senses fled
    And I was ded,
    Thy lippes were scarce imbrude.
    The kisse was thine,
    The hurt was mine,
    My hart felt all the paine:
    Twas it that bled
    And lookte so red,
    I tell thée once againe.
    But if you long
    To wreake your wrong
    Vpon your friendly fo:
    Come kisse againe
    And put to paine
    The man that hurt you so.
    • Modernised:
      "To his Lady, that by hap when he kissed her and made her lip bleed, controlled him and took disdain"
        Discharge thy dole,
        Thou subtle soul,
      It stands in little stead
        To curse the kiss
        That causer is
      Thy cherry lip doth bleed.
        Thy blood ascends
        To make amends
      For damage thou hast done:
        For by the same
        I felt a flame
      More scorching than the sun.
        Thou reft’st my heart
        By secret art,
      My sprites were quite subdued:
        My senses fled
        And I was dead,
      Thy lips were scarce imbrued.
        The kiss was thine,
        The hurt was mine,
      My heart felt all the pain:
        ’Twas it that bled
        And looked so red,
      I tell thee once again.
        But if you long
        To wreak your wrong
      Upon your friendly foe;
        Come kiss again
        And put to pain
      The man that hurt you so.
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