Tottel sig. Cciiv

[sig. Cciiv]

A H loue how waiward is his wit what panges do perce his brest Whom thou to wait vpon thy will hast reued of his rest. The light, the darke, the sunne, the mone, the day & eke the night, His dayly dieng life, him self, he hateth in despight, (5) Sith furst he light to looke on her that holdeth him in thrall, His mouing eyen his moued wit he curseth hart and all, From hungry hope to pining feare eche hap doth hurle his hart, From panges of plaint to fits of fume from aking into smart. Eche moment so doth change his chere not with recourse of ease, (10) But with sere sortes of sorrowes still he worketh as the seas. That turning windes not calme returnde rule in vnruly wise, As if their holdes of hilles vphurld they brasten out to rise. And puffe away the power that is vnto their king assignde To pay that sithe their prisonment they deme to be behinde. (15) So doth the passions long represt within the wofull wight, Breake downe the banks of all his wits & out they gushen quite. To rere vp rores now they be free from reasons rule and stay, And hedlong hales thunruled race his quiet quite away. No measure hath he of his ruth, no reason in his rage, (20) No bottom ground where stayes his grief, thus weares away his age In wishing wants, in wayling woes. Death doth he dayly call, To bring release when of relief he seeth no hope at all. Thence comes that oft in depe despeire to rise to better state. On heauen and heauenly lampes he layeth the faute of al his fate. (25) On God and Gods decreed dome cryeth out with cursing breath, Eche thing that gaue and saues him life he damneth of his death. The wombe him bare, the brests he suckt, ech star that with their might. Their secret succour brought to bring the wretch to worldly light Yea that to his soules perile is most haynous harme of all, (30) And craues the cruellest reuenge that may to man befall: Her he blasphemes in whom it lieth in present as she please, To dampne him downe to depth of hell, or plant in heauens case. Such rage constrainde my strained hart to guide thunhappy hand That sent vnsitting blots to her on whom my life doth stand. (35) But graunt O God that he for them may beare the worthy blame Whom I do in my depe distresse finde guilty of the same, Euen that blinde boy + that blindly guides the fautles to their fall, That laughes when they lament that he hath throwen into thral. Or Lord, saue louring lookes of her, what penance els thou please (40) So her contented will be wonne I count it all mine ease. And thou on whom doth hang my will, with hart, with soul & care, With life and all that life may haue of well or euell fare: