Which now for want of thy glad sight, doth show full pale & dead. But if thou slip thy trouth and do not come at all, (20) As minutes in the clocke do strike so call for death I shall. To please both thy false hart, and rid my self from wo, That rather had to dye in trouth then liue forsaken so.
The meane estate is best. +
T He doutfull man hath feuers strange And constant hope is oft diseasde, Dispaire cannot but brede a change, Nor fleting hartes cannot be pleasde. (5) Of all these bad, the best I thinck, Is well to hope, though fortune shrinck. Desired thinges are not ay prest, Nor thinges denide left all vnsought, Nor new things to be loued best, (10) Nor all offers to be set at nought, Where faithfull hart hath bene refusde, The chosers wit was there abusde. The wofull ship of carefull sprite, Fleting on seas of welling teares, (15) With sailes of wishes broken quite, Hanging on waues of dolefull feares, By surge of sighes at wrecke nere hand, May fast no anker hold on land. What helps the dyall to the blinde, (20) Or els the clock without it sound. Or who by dreames doth hope to finde, The hidden gold within the ground: Shalbe as free from cares and feares, As he that holds a Wolfe by the cares. (25) And how much mad is he that thinks To clime to heauen by the beames, What ioy alas, hath he that winks, At Titan or his golden streames, +His ioyes not subiect to reasons lawes, (30) That ioyeth more then he hath cause. For as the Phenix that climeth hye, The sunne lightly in ashes burneth, Againe, the Faulcon so quick of eye,