Findyng no relief, he complayneth thus. +
I N quest of my relief, I finde distresse, In recompence of Loue, most deepe disdayne: My langour such as wordes may not expresse, A shower of teares, my watrie eye doth rayne. (5) I dreame of this, and doe define of woe, I wander in the thoughtes of my sweete foe.
I would no peace, the cause of warre I flie, I hope, I feare, I burne, I chill in Frost: I lye a low, yet mountes my mynde on hye, (10) thus doubtfull stormes, my troubled thoughtes haue tost. And for my payne, this pleasure do I proue, I hate my selfe, and pine in others Loue.
The world I graspe, yet hold I nought at all, At libertie I seeme, in prison pent: (15) I tast the sweete, more sower then bitter gall, My ship seemes sounde, and yet her ribbes be rent. And out alas, on Fortune false I crie, Looke what I craue, that still she doth denie.
Both life and death, be equall vnto me, (20) I do desire to dye, yet craue I life: My wittes with sundry thoughtes do disagree, My selfe am with my selfe at mortall strife. As warmeth of Sunne, doth melt the siluer snow, The heate of Loue, behold consumes me so.
FINIS. R. Hill.