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PASSION. XXXI. (Book 31)
Eyes weepe no more, hart breath no fighing sobs,
Cease to repeate ô quill thy maisters griefe,
The theefe is knowne which hope of quiet robs:
And courage must (not weakenes) gaine reliefe;
Leaue of to moane, with Fortune be content,
No case is found by this thy sad lament.
Teares cannot quench the heate of kindled fier.
Nor sighing sobs restore thy former state,
Pen cannot write the accents of desire,
Nor courage quaile the force of frowning fate:
Yeilding cannot helpe, force cannot preuaile,
Against the stormie windes no ship can saile.
Enuye not Death, he claymeth but his due,
Fortune cannot her crabbed nature leaue,
Why doest thou then these sighing sobs renewe,
And fate reuile that did thy hope deceaue?
Now debts are payde, call home thy wits againe,
Desire not that which thou shalt wish in vaine.
Thus rest content with this thy fatall chaunce,
For that will checke thy angry fortunes pride,
With enuies pipe that leades a scornefull daunce,
And with disdaine thy sorrowes doth deride:
With patience thou mayst ou'rcome at length,
And more then this repose no trust in strength.