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Each obiect of distresse, My sorrow doth expresse: (35) I doate on that which doth my hart vndoe, And honor hir that scornes to yeeld reliefe.
T. L. Gent.
A Ccurst be loue and they that trust his traines; +He tastes the fruite, whilst others toyle: He brings the lampe, we lend the oyle: He sowes distres, we yeeld him soyle: (5) He wageth warre, we bide the foyle:
Accurst be Loue, and those that trust his traines: He laies the trap, we seeke the snare: He threatneth death, we speake him faire: He coynes deceits, we foster care: (10) He fauoreth pride, we count it rare.
Accurst be Loue, and those that trust his traines, He seemeth blinde, yet wounds with Art: He vowes content, he paies with smart: He sweares reliefe, yet kils the hart: (15) He cals for truth, yet scornes desart. Accurst be loue, and those that trust his traines, Whose heauen, is hell; whose perfect ioyes, are paines.
T. L. Gent.