Poems, by that most famous wit, William Drummond of Hawthornden

SON.

IN Minds pure Glasse when I my selfe behold, And lively see how my best daies are spent, What clouds of care above my head are rold, What comming ill, which I cannot prevent: My course begun I wearied do repent, And would embrace what Reason oft hath told, But scarce thus thinke I, when Love hath controld All the best reasons Reason could invent. Though sure I know my labours end is griefe, The more I strive that I the more shall pine, That only death shall be my last reliefe: Yet when I thinke upon that face divine, Like one with Arrow shot, in laughters place, Maugre my Heart, I joy in my disgrace.