Yet in my hart this worde shall sinke, Untill the proofe may better bee I would it were not as I thinke, I would I thought it were not.
¶ An exellent Sonet, Wherin the Louer exclaymeth agaynst
Detraction, beeing the principall cause of all his care.
To the tune, when Cupid scaled first the Fort. +
P Asse forth in doulfull dumpes my verse, Thy Masters heauy haps vnfolde: His grisled greefe eache hart well perce, Display his woes, feare not, bee bould (5) Hid hole in heapes of heauinesse His dismale dayes are almost spent, For fate, which forgde this ficklenesse My youthly yeares with teares hath sprent. I lothe the lingring life I led (10) O wished death why stayest thy hand, Sith gladsome Ioyes away bee fled: And linkte I am in Dollors bande. In weltring waues my ship is tost My shattering sayles away bee shorne, (15) My Anker from the Stearne is lost And Tacklings from the Maynyard storne. Thus driuen with euery gale of winde My weather beaten Barke doth sayle, Still hoping harbor once to finde (20) Which may these passinge perrils quayle. But out alas, in vayne I hope Sith Billowes prowd, assault mee still And skill doth want with Seas to copeAnd licour salte my Keele doth fill.