A Way dispaire, the death of hopeles harts, +For hope and truth, assure me long agoe, That pleasure is the end of lingring smarts, When time, with iust content, rewardeth woe.
(5) Sweete vertues throne is built in labours towre, Where Lawrell wreath’s are twist for them alone, Whose gals are burst with often taste of sowre, Whose blis from bale is sprong, whose mirth from mone.
I therefore striue by toyles, to raise my name, (10) And Iason like, to gaine a golden fleece, The end of eu’ry worke doth crowne the same, As witnes well, the happie harmes of Greece: For if the Greekes, had soone got Pryams seat, The glory of their paines, had not been great.
T. W. Gent.
I Hope and feare, that for my weale or woe, +That heau’nly lampe, which yeelds both heat & light, To make a throne, for gods on earth belowe, Is cut in twaine, and fixt in my delight, (5) Which two faire hemyspheres, through light & heat, Planting desire, driue reason from hir seate. +
No, no, my too forgetfull toong blaspheames, I should haue saide, that where these hemispheres, In harts, through eies, fixe hot and lightsome beames, (10) There reason works desire, and hopes breed feares, O onely obiect, for an Eagles eie, +Whose light, and heate, make men to liue and die.
Twixt these, a daintie paradise doth lie, As sweete as in the Sunne the Phenix Bowre, (15) As white as snowe, as smooth as Iuorie,