THE POEMS OF ISABELLA WHITNEY: A CRITICAL EDITION by ...

(Gorgeous 205). Objecting that the earlier poem was of poor
quality ("Rime Ruffe it is . . . One rhyme too low, an other
rampes too hye," 11. 52, 54), the poet here hopes to produce
something better than doggerel, despite her own lack of
poetic skill. The first twelve lines of the poem form an
introduction apparently written by Thomas Proctor, the
editor of the book.
A doutfull, dying, dolefull. Dame,
Not fearing death, nor forcing life:
Nor caring ought for flitting fame,
Emongst such sturdy stormes of strife:
Here doth shee mourne and write her will,
Vpon her liked Louers ende:
Graunt (Muses nyne) your sacred skill,
Helpe to assist your mournfull freend:
Embouldned with your Nimphish ayde,
Shee will not cease, but seeke to singe:
And eke employ her willing head.
Her Gruffithes prayse, with ruthe to ringe.
With Poets pen, I doo not preace to write,
Mineruaes mate, I doo not boast to bee:
Parnassus Mount (I speake it for no spite)
Can cure my cursed cares, I playnly see:
For why? my hart contaynes as many woes
As euer Hector did amongst his foes.
Eche man doth mone, when faythfull freends
(bee dead.
And paynt them out, as well as wits doo serue:
But I, a Mayde, am forst to vse my head.
To wayle my freend (whose fayth) did prayse
(deserue:
Wit wants to will: alas? no skill I haue.
Yet must I needes deplore my Gruffithes graue:
For William, white: for Gruffith, greene: I
(wore.
And red, longe since did serue to please my minde:
Now, blacke, I weare, of mee, not vs'd before,
In liew of loue, alas? this losse I finde:
Now must I leaue, both. White, and Greene, and
(Red,
And wayle my freend, who is but lately dead.
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