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PASSION. XXIII. (Book 23)
ECclipsed with the blemish of disgrace,
Coms ATROPOS the messenger of night,
And sayth I must, newe sorrowes now embrace,
Who hath in charge to cancell my delight:
A cruell doome thus to ou'rcharge my minde
Where hope dispaires true comforts fruit to finde.
Yf former cause did formall griefe applie,
And formall griefe in time encreased more,
This treble cause of woefull miserie,
Will make me yeilde to cruell fortunes lore:
That doth deuise newe tortures to encrease,
My martyrdome, the wrath-full Gods to please.
Might carcas cras'd with battring engyns noyde,
Content (the strength being scaled and defac'd,)
The cruell executioner deuoyd,
Of pitties fruite, which Iustice neu'r embrac'd:
Then Fortune would be wearied to torment,
My wracked minde, thus cloth'd with sad lament.
But sith I must endure these paines extreame,
Now let me sigh and breath this fatall doome,
For death I craue this thraldome to redeame.
If death would heare the crie of such a groome;
If not, you Gods heare now my mournfull verse,
Wherein my cares with teares I doe rehearse.