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PASSION. XXIIII. (Book 24)
TRembling with feare my thread-bare comfort left,
To feede vppon the obiect of my smart,
And to repeat the cause which thus bereft,
The hope, the ioy, and comfort of my hart:
Sing then with me such as will mourne and moane,
Eise I must sing with mourning teares alone.
For Fortunes clouded-brow doth threatnings send,
And scorning bandes a smile from stormie face,
Disdayning comforts of my cares to lend,
Intending still to keepe me in disgrace:
As seruile drudge to her commaunding will,
In cruell spights that hath a tried skill.
O sacred muse with melodie deplore,
And decke the hearse with mournfull ornaments,
Which doth to me renewed griefe restore,
And fil'd my face with sorrowes sad laments:
Whose life was deer•…•…, whose death must be my dole,
Which wringes my thoughtes, and racks my vexed soule.
You louely sweetes to whom I doe appeale,
Attire your selues in Sables with the rest,
For to assist with mone my burning zeale,
The smoke whereof hath neere my minde supprest:
In cloudie stormes it yeildeth much reliefe,
To haue a friende for to impart our griefe.