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PASSION. XI. (Book 11)
O lampe that guides the circle of the globe,
Yf pitties fruite doth nestle in thy brest,
Scorne not in pride, the humble to disroabe,
With nakednes from his enioyed rest;
That willing yeildes vnto thy sacred doome,
Thoughe web of care be knit in sorrowes loome.
You scoffing ECCHOS that repeat my crie,
And answere make when to the woods I moane,
Yfanie say I faine, you may replie,
And witnes that vnder this curse I groane,
Who better knowes, if that the priest did ken,
All that he ought? then clark that said Amen.
You are the Sextons of my haplesse plaints,
That say amen vnto my dolefull songes,
And you doe knowe, my Ladies are the saints▪
(With sweete conceyts) that may redresse my wrongs,
Applaude their praise, record my deepe despaire,
With shrill, short sound, of new abrupted ayer,
Nay prating sound cease for to brag my paine,
Thou hast no skill to itterat my smart,
Let such repeate that hath a copio us vaine,
Th'xtreamest panges and langor of my heart;
My Ladies may expresse my inward griefe,
Whose changed note may sound me some reliefe.