CANTVS. V. (Book 5)
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SO tyr'd are all my thoughts, that sence and spirits faile; Mourning I pine, and
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know not what I ayle. O what can yeeld ease to a minde, toy in nothing that can finde?
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BASSVS.
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2
How are my powres sore-spoke? what strange distaste is this?
Hence cruell hate of that which sweetest is:
Come, come delight, make my dull braine
Feele once heate of joy ag••••ne.
3
The louers teares are sweet, their moner makes them so:
Proud of a wound the bleeding Souldiers grovs:
Poore I alone, dreaming, endure
Griefe that knowes nor cause, nor cure.
And whence can all this grow? euen from an idle mi••de,
That no delight in any good can finde.
Action alone makes the soule blest;
Vertue dyes with too much reft.