S Uch is the course, that natures kinde hath wrought, That snakes haue time to cast away their stinges. Ainst chainde prisoners what nede defence be sought: The fierce lyon will hurt no yelden thinges: +(5) Why should such spite be nursed then thy thought? Sith all these powers are prest vnder thy winges: And eke thou seest, and reason thee hath taught: What mischief malice many wayes it bringes: Consider eke, that spight auaileth naught, (10) Therfore this song thy fault to thee it singes: Displease the not, for saiyng thus (me thought.) Nor hate thou him from whom no hate forth springes, For furies, that in hell be execrable. For that they hate, are made most miserable.
The louer complaineth that deadly
sicknesse can not helpe his
T He enmy of life, decayer of all kinde, +That with his cold withers away the grene: This other night, me in my bed did finde: And offerd me to ryd my feuer clene. (5) And I dyd graunt: so did dispaire me blinde. He drew his bowe, with arrowes sharpe and kene: And strake the place, wher loue had hit before: And draue the first dart deper more and more.