A floorish vpon fancie As gallant a glose vpon so triflinge a text, as euer was written. Compiled by N.B. Gent. To which are annexed, manie pretie pamphlets, for pleasant heads to passe away idle time withal. By the same authour.

¶The same man being in very great dumpes the same tyme, being likewise intreated to wryte some dolefull Dittie of his owne inuention, wrote as followeth.

WHat griping gréefs, what pinching pangues of payne? What deadly dinte of déepe and darcke annoye? What plague? what wo, doth in this world remayne? What Hellish happe? what wante of worldly ioye? But that (oh Caytife) I doe daylye byde, Yea, and that more then all the world besyde.

If euer man had cause to wish for death, To cut atwo this lucklesse lyne of lyfe: Why stryue not I with spéede to stoppe my breath? Since cruell care, not lyke a caruing knyfe, But lyke a Sawe, still hackling to and froe, Thus gnawes my harte with grypes of weary woe.

What doe you thinke I iest, or that I fayne? Or Louer lyke, my lyfe I doe lament? Or that my fyttes are fancies of the brayne, Which wauer still, and neuer stande content? Or that my sighes are nought but signes of sloath? Oh thinke not so, beleeue me on my troath.

This I protest before my God on hye, If that I could my doloures well declare: I thinke I should such priuy p••ngues descrye, Of sorrowes smarte, as surely seldome are Séene now adayes: I thincke especyally, Yea seene or felte, of such a Youth as I.

But some perhaps will ask••, what is my woe? What is the thing that makes me so to mourne? And why I walke so solemne too and froe? I aunswere thus: such fyry flames doth burne, Both day and night, within my boyling brest: That God he knowes, I take but little rest.

But shall I tell, how fyrst this flame arose? And how these Coles were kyndled at the furst? I may not so my dolloures deepe disclose: For credit me, I would fayne if I durst. But since, alas, I may not as I would, Let this suffice, I would fayne if I could.

What if I could? nay durst: what did I say? For if I durst, I know full well I could: What could I doe? no whit more then I may, I know that too: but yet if that I would. I could doe much more then I meane to doe, As thus aduisde: but whether doe I goe?

What néede so many wordes? so much a doe? To blaze the broyles that I doe dayly byde: Or else to tell of tormentes too too too, Wherewith I am beset on euery syde. These few wordes naught haue serued the tourne I trowe, Then thousand plagues, but pleasures none I knowe.

Finis.