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PASSION. VII. (Book 7)
SCarce warme I burne, yet freeze in fierie flame,
Displeased still, I rest content withall,
Yet male-content againe, eu'n with the same;
What freedom wrought, eft-soones hath made me thrall,
Thus contrarie these coutraries I taste,
Thus borne to beare I liue my life to waste.
Life is a death, when dolors taste doth sway.
And death a life to such as crosses beare,
My thred is spoon to be the VVLTV•…•… spray,
That Tiger-like▪ my •…•…ell death doth sweare:
Thoughts, force my lingring life, to weare and pine,
Conceyt will kill the stoutest heart in fine.
Distressed thus, my light-some hope is past,
And darknes doth with horror now appeare,
Maister the shippe that hath a broken Mast:
Through darkest clouds Sonns goulden beams are cleere.
So let the beams and beautie of your grace,
Shine through the mist that doth my ioy deface.
Hide not the glasse with any wooden case,
Let vertues mindes some vertues workes bring foorth,
Doe not sweete Nimphs your noble mindes imbase,
With any act that shall not be of worth,
But let your sonne shine to your sheapheards case,
The praise is yours, if you his griefe appease.