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PASSION. XXXIII. (Book 33)
THe fit is come, my trembling flesh doth feare,
These idle toyes fore-runners of my griefe,
Prognosticate what torment I must beare,
I see me thinkes the agents of reliefe,
Repulst by force of the tormentors hand,
Seeking in vaine his strength for to withstand.
Yeild then I must vnto the cursed stroke,
That shall weare out the remnant of my dayes,
And be content to beare the seruile yoke,
Which sorrowes charge from sorrowes store defrayes:
For being enroul'd within the booke of woe,
I must not scorne for to embrace my foe.
And for my follies which sometimes yeild ease,
To cleere the smoke of cloudie ATHOS fier,
Their force cannot my fettered thoughts release,
But rather doe encerease my fond desire:
And as ACTEONS dogs, spar'd not their Lord,
To hunt me from my rest, so they accord.
O harsh accord of woefull harmonie,
That naught can tune but solemne notes of care,
Wherein is crost the fruite of charitie,
Whereof I want (to salue my griefes) a share,
Then past redresse, I must remaine content,
To cherish that which frowning fortune sent▪