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PASSION. XL. (Book 40)
REst I at home, remembrance rackes my minde,
The obiect which doth feede my hungrie thought,
For nothing there remaynes for me to finde,
But euen the sound which I haue deerely bought,
Repentance, purchas'd with hastie brayne,
Which stores my mind with heapes of loath, d disdayne.
For idle heads build castles in the ayre,
And being alone am I there where I am?
No sure I view full many a countrey fayre,
And forren thoughts doe feede my fancies flame,
Eu'n thus I weare and waste away the time,
Declining when I haue most minde to clime.
The day expir'd, the nights approach supplies,
Where dreames with feare preuert my quiet rest,
And MORPHEVS a sopor sweete demes,
Which after toyle should be my mornings feast.
Sometimes I bathe my carefull couch with teares,
From soundest sleepe, a wak'd with starting feares.
Iturne and tosse: for Bodies ease is scant
When minde is fraught with burthens of annoy,
And cares my ioyes with spreding bows supplant,
Dispayre doth hope with vglie face destroy.
Thus discontents plant accentes of my griefe,
Which do suppresse the agents of reliefe.