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PASSION. XXVI. (Book 26)
VVEaried with cloudes of tempest-beaten sense,
Whole armies of reproches fill my sayle,
Marching with life, that hath but weake defence,
But in dispaire I looke not to preuaile:
For vnto me befell a worser spite,
Then any thing that yet my pen could write.
Far worse it is then what is worst of all,
Mine eye bewrayes the care I take therefore,
Th'annotomie of my accursed thrall,
The more I striue the paine encreaseth more,
For that doth make the new heal'd scar to bleede,
And woundes againe; ô would it kild with speede.
Twise launced sore the thirde time now is search'd,
The first was paine, which scant I could endure,
The second hath my crased carcas pearch'd,
The third and last did latest harme procure.
And by as much the second past the first,
Eu'n by so much, or more, the last is worst:
Three harmes in one, conspired to betray,
The guiltles thought, scant wayned from dispaire,
Scarce first had end, before the next did sway,
Third came too soone his ioyes to ympaire;
But last it was that most did vexe my minde,
Though former twayne did not come much behinde.