Sinetes passions vppon his fortunes offered for an incense at the shrine of the ladies which guided his distempered thoughtes. The patrons patheticall posies, sonets, maddrigals, and rowndelayes. Together with Sinetes dompe. By Robert Parry Gent.
Parry, Robert, fl. 1540-1612.
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VVaste is the soile where naught but thistles grow,
And barrē ground will nothing yeild but weeds,
Vnhappie is such that soweth not to mowe,
When hope is lost in care, then comfort bleeds;
Waste soyle, voyde hope, thistles and weedes encrease,
In my mindes waste, that waste for want of peace.
Peace with my soule (although my bodie warrs)
Would qualifie the rigor of my paine,
But that I want and must endure the scarrs,
To ranckle, which doe now begin againe,
When vlcers bleed, then daungers doe ensue,
And carefull thoughts my bleeding sores renew.
Renewed thus I count the clocke of care,
No minute past without the tast of smart,
Not as the diall, which doth oft declare:
The time to passe, yet not perceau'd to stait;
Poets faine, time swiftly to flie away,
Yet time is slow, when sorrowe surges sway.
As rotten ragges being dipt, the water drawes,
By soaking fits out of the vessell cleane,
Eu'n so from me doth sorrowes droth (which thawes,
Mycongeal'd heart, with cruell cursed speene)
Soake out the ioyce and moysture of my braine,
For dropping eies can not from teares refraine.