A Ll day I weepe my wearie woes, +Then when that night approcheth neere, And euery one his eies doth close, And passed paines no more appeere, (5) I change my cheere,
And in the weepings of mine eie, +Loue bathes his wings, and from my hart Drawes fire his furie to supplie, And on my bones doth whet his dart: (10) Oh bitter smart.
My sighes within their clouds obscure, Would blinde mine eies, they might not see, Those cruell pleasant lamps that lure: My reason faine would set me free, (15) Which may not be.
The dried strawe will take the fire; The trained brache will follow game: The idle thought doth still desire: Fond will is hardly brought in frame: (20) The more my blame.
Thus see I how the stormes doe growe, And yet the paine I still approoue: I leaue my weale, I follow woe, I see the rocke, yet nill remooue: (25) Oh flie me Loue:
Then midst the stormes I shall preuent, And by foresight my troubles cease: And by my reason shun repent; Thus shall I ioye, if Loue decrease: (30) And liue in peace.
T. L. Gent.