The Forsaken Man

by Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford

A crown of bays shall that man wear,
 That triumphs over me;
 For black and tawny will I wear,
 Which mourning colours be.
 The more I follow’d one,
 The more she fled away,
 As Daphne did full long agone
 Apollo’s wishful prey.
 The more my plaints I do resound
 The less she pities me;
 The more I sought the less I found,
 Yet mine she meant to be.
 Melpomene alas, with doleful tunes help than; [then]
 And sing Bis, woe worth on me forsaken man.
 
Then Daphne’s bays shall that man wear,
 That triumphs over me;
 For black and tawny will I wear,
 Which mourning colours be.
 Drown me with trickling tears,
 You wailful wights of woe;
 Come help these hands to rend my hairs,
 My rueful hap to show.
 
On whom the scorching flame
 Of love doth feed you see;
 Ah a lalalantida, my dear dame
 Hath thus tormented me.
 Wherefore you muses nine, with doleful tunes help than,
 And sint, Bis, woe worth on me forsaken man.
 
Then Daphne’s bays shall that man wear,
 That triumphs over me;
 For black and tawny will I wear,
 Which mourning co]ours be;
 An anchor’s life to icad,
 With nails to scratch my grave,
 Where earthly worms on me shall feed,
 Is all the ioy I crave;
 And hide myself from shame,
 Since that mine eyes do see,
 Ah a lalalantida, my dear dame
 Hath thus tormented me.
 And all that present be, with doleful tunes help than,
 And sing Bis wot worth, on me forsaken man.