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PASSION. XVIII. (Book 18)
LOng loathed lookes, of my forepassed life,
Are glutted with the sense of fond desire,
And discontent did agrauate my strife,
When hope did staie, my stamring steps t'aspire:
Being tyed by fayth my fatall fortunes woe,
To this base chaunce; I must embrace my foe.
Lo he which sometimes thought great scorne to se•…•…,
Stamp made of purest mould to frowne on him,
And thought the Queene of loue might well agree,
To taste his skill that in conceyte did swimme,
And dee•…•…'d a toy, for to deserue a smile,
Of coyest she that eu'r did man beguile.
Whose ouer-weening wits and cake aspiring though,
Like finest law•…•…e which wanteth not his bracke,
By fortun's spite was sodenly ou'r-raught,
And swelling sayle endur'd the greater wracke:
The greatar oake the lowder is his fall,
The higher minde th' uneasier is the thrall:
The sillie flie in spyders web i•…•…hrauld,
The more he striues the more entangled lies,
Euen so my minde that with conceyte is gauld,
No way to scape the Laborinth he spies,
The more he seekes his follies to avoyde,
The more he loues the fruite himselfe au•…•…oyde.