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PASSION. XLI. (Book 41)
TIme draweth on to frustrate my desires,
Which vent will giue to my abortiue cares,
For to burst foorth to cruell flaming fiers,
Which wastes my life, fast fettred in the snares:
Of discontents, and then shall cease to moane,
When matter wantes for griefe to feede vpon.
Yeilde then content till sorrowes wearied be,
Let them complaine what toyle they doe endure,
Both day and night in persecuting thee,
Then they will cease thy torments to procure▪
And for to reape vnto themselues some ease,
Thy will consent thy bondage to release.
Then shall the beau'ns confesse they did thee wrong,
And earth possest with such a tyrannie,
Shall curse the seedes, whereof thy woes are sprong,
All moaning thus thy woefull miserie:
O man thus borne in spite of angrie starrs,
Whose selfe-conceyte worke to him deadly warrs.
Could all the Gods being ioin'd in one consent,
Frame such a one which art no time could cure,
Though SATVRNE had some crooked nature lent,
Thinges of such force but fieldome are in vre:
And though they be yet cannot much preuaile,
Yf fate giue place vnto our swelling sayle.