Internet Shakespeare Editions

About this text

  • Title: The Passionate Pilgrim (Octavo, 1599)
  • Editor: Hardy M. Cook
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-411-0

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Hardy M. Cook
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Passionate Pilgrim (Octavo, 1599)

    170BEauty is but a vaine and doubtfull good,
    A shining glosse, that vadeth sodainly,
    A flower that dies, when first it gins to bud,
    A brittle glasse, that s broken presently.
    A doubtfull good, a glosse, a glasse, a flower,
    175 Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an houre.
    And as goods lost, are seld or neuer found,
    As vaded glosse no rubbing will refresh:
    As flowers dead, lie withered on the ground,
    As broken glasse no symant can redresse.
    180 So beauty blemisht once, for euer lost,
    In spite of phisicke, painting, paine and cost.
    Good night, good rest, ah neither be my share,
    She bad good night, that kept my rest away,
    And daft me to a cabben hangde with care:
    185To descant on the doubts of my decay.
    Farewell (quoth she) and come againe to morrow
    Fare well I could not, for I supt with sorrow.
    Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
    In scorne or friendship, nill I conster whether:
    190'T may be she ioyd to ieast at my exile,
    'T may be againe, to make me wander thither.
    Wander (a word) for shadowes like my selfe,
    As take the paine but cannot plucke the pelfe.
    Lord how mine eies throw gazes to the East,
    195My hart doth charge the watch, the morning rise
    Doth scite each mouing scence from idle rest,
    Not daring trust the office of mine eies.
    While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
    And with her layes were tuned like the larke.
    200For she doth welcome daylight with her dittie,
    And driues away darke dreaming night:
    The night so packt, I post vnto my pretty,
    Hart hath his hope, and eies their wished sight,
    Sorrow changd to solace, and solace mixt with sorrow,
    205 For why, she sight, and bad me come to morrow.
    Were I with her, the night would post too soone,
    But now are minutes added to the houres:
    To spite me now, ech minute seemes an houre,
    Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers.
    210 Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow
    Short night to night, and length thy selfe to morrow
    To sundry notes of Musicke.
    Printed for W. Iaggard, and are
    to be sold by W. Leake, at the Grey-
    hound in Paules Churchyard.