Happy in sleepe, waking content to languish,
Imbracing clowdes by night, in day time mourne,
My joyes but shadowes, touch of truth my anguish,
Griefes ever springing, comforts never borne:
And still expecting when she will relent,
Growne hoarce with crying " Mercy, mercy gyve";
So many vowes and prayers having spent,
That weary of myselfe, I loathe to lyve.
And yet the Hydra of my cares renewes
Still new-borne sorrowes of her fresh disdaine:
And still my hope the sommer windes pursues,
Finding no end nor period of my paine.
This is my state; my griefes doe touch so neerely,
And thus I live because I love her deerely.