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He declareth his greate mishappes, and lamentable sorovves of harte.
WHen eache wight wonted is, to take by nature rest,
I lie alas through gréeping griefe, and thought so sore oprest,
That from my goyng to bead, vntill the time I rise,
Sleape once hath skarse the powre to close my wéeping wakefull eyes,
In whiche longe lothsome nightes, my Pen full oft I blame,
For that the wofull state of me t'indite he doth not frame:
Whose youthfull yeares and daies, by nature were not ripe,
When cruell fate them cleane cut of, at one most soden wipe:
Though life do yet remaine to length my time in teares,
Whiche fliyng fame seemes not to cease, to blow in each wightes eares,
For singe me oft God knowes, a heauie harte to beare,
When outwardly I séeme to shew, a glad and mery chere,
And eke a carefull minde, more troublously itost,
Then is the shipman on the Sea, in daunger nie the lost:
Whose care no greater is, then life and goods to saue,
When I of God continually, with humble voyce do craue,
That he by death will quite, my grief away expell,
And geue to me a place amonge, the saued soules to dwell:
Which now longe times haue béen, so tossed with vnrest,
That scarse I may the woes sustaine, that lie in wofull brest,
To thinke on my mishaps, whiche do me still betide,
When happie hap to finde redresse, full fast away doth glide,
What greater greife may growe in any honest minde,
Then is to wante such wonted wealth, as it some time did finde:
Such prouidence for man, doth Fortune oft procure,
When smilingly she séemes to trayne, with bayte of golden leure,
By meane wherof she will, a canckred poyson lay,
Full closely coucht in pleasant bayte, with that poore soule to tray,
As I but lately tried, who doth her bayts so taste,
That secretly I sup the smarts, whiche caufe me pine and waste:
Would God when I began, to enter first to life,
That present death had pearst my hart, and rid me cleane this strife,