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PASSION. I. (Book 1)
FIne ripe coceyts forsake the wearied miude,
And fancies faile, whē sorowes surges swaye
My pen bath'd in the waues of griefs vnkind
Must write of moane, of ruine & decaye:
A tragicke note doth fit a tragick chaunce,
A heauie heart with sorrowes pipe must daunce.
Like PELICAN I wander all alone,
The dezart woodes and wildernes so wilde,
To senselesse groues, I crye and make my moane,
Eu'n from my thoughts all hope is quite e•…•…il'd,
Left thus to mourne the skriching owle keepes time?
With dolefull notes that to the heauens doe clime.
Notes that bewaile the griefes of carefull heart,
That charge my minde with heapes of deepe annoy,
Which vnto none I vowed to impart,
But vnto you my drenching dolors ioy:
Keepe ladies keepe the closet of my griefe,
Yeilde Ladies yeilde, for sorrowe some reliefe.
No darke despaire may drowne my drowsie hope,
If you giue life vnto my dead desire,
Nor ought may daunt my minde, yf you giue scope,
To pitties floodes to quench the kindled fire:
Fortune is blinde and will not see my paine,
Time hath a salue to cure the same againe.