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PASSION. IIII. (Book 4)
NIghts rest is bard with weried thoughts controle,
The pillow moanes bath'd in my drēching teares,
The sheetes beare guilt of my distressed soule,
Wherein is wrapt a multitude of feares,
When stealing nappe doth close my drowfie eies,
Then starting, feare sayth it is time to rise.
Yf sleepe at all possesse my vytall parts,
Then dreadfull dreames with gastly sights appeare,
Which do present the cause that wrought my smarts:
And doe a fresh renewe forgotten feare;
I sleepe in paine, I watch in wretched griefe,
Lyef's in dispaire sith hope forbids reliefe.
When cursed thoughts there carefull couch forsake,
Confused heaps of new encreasing sores.
Like wildfier tost in PHLEGETONS firie lake,
Or ship that stirrs gainst raging streame with ores:
So doth my heart with sorowing sobs neere spent,
Striue with the course that cares command hath sent.
My moane I make where pities bowre is built,
Your gentle brests is mercies chaire of state,
A Butt of bane which neu'r for lacke is tilt:
Yeildes fresh supplies vnto my frowning fate,
Then fortune then cleere once this smothing aire,
With salues of hope, after this long dispaire.