University of Virginia Library

21. [Despondency.]

Ah poore conceite, pull downe delight, thy pleasant daies are done,
The shadie vales muste be there walkes, that cannot see the sunne;
The world I not to witnes call, the heavnes my recordes be,
If euer I was false to loue, or louer true to me.
I knowe it now, I knowe it not, but all to late I rue it,
I rue not that I knowe it now, but that I euer knewe it.
My care is not a fonde conceite, that bredes a fainèd smarte,
My greives doe gripe me at the gall, and gnawe me at the heart;
My teares are not thos fainèd dropps, that fall from fancies eies,
But bitter streames of strange distres, wherin discomfort lyes.
My sighes are not those heavie haps, that shewe a sicklie breath,
My passions are the p'fect signes, and verie panges of death.
In some, to make a dolfull eye, I see my deathe so nye,
That sorrow bids me singe my last, and so my sences dye.
Finis.