Excellent Ditties of diuers kindes, and
rare inuention: written by
W Eepe you my lines for sorrow whilst I write +For you alone may manifest my griefe, Your numbers must my endles woes recite, Such woes as wound my soule without reliefe, (5) Such bitter woes, as who so would disclose them, Must cease to talke, for hart can scarse suppose them.
My restles braines deuour’d by many thoughts, Disclaiming ioies doth make a heauen of hell, An Idoll of mislikes, a God of noughts, (10) Contrarious passions on my braine doth dwell, They would haue ease, yet seeke for ceaslesse strife, And make their cause of death, their meanes of life.
Mine eies are dim’d by two diuine delights, And through their sight, my hart hath caught a wound: (15) Their lids were shut amids the lingring nights: Their yeelding fountaines watring of the ground, Doe ceasles run, and shroud their shining ioy, And drowne Content in riuers of annoy.
I faine to smile, when as I faint for feare: (20) I dreame on ioy, when as I doubt of woe: I burne in fire, yet still approch it neare: I like of mirth, yet will no solace knowe: I see content, yet neuer cease to sigh: I liue secure, yet danger passeth nigh.