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29
Complaint of ingratitude.
My Pen in piteous part,Cannot in halfe descrie,
The inwarde woes in moning hart,
That gripes me secretlie.
If outwarde face coulde mone,
The woes of inwarde shape,
The senslesse trees, and Flintie stone,
Woulde rue my haplesse hap.
O hart with care opprest,
So plungde in penurie,
The sobbing sighes of great vnrest,
Will cause me wretch to die.
Into vntimely graue,
Mishap shall me conuaie,
The darte of death I neede not craue,
I see no prompter way.
Thus I haue plight the paine,
Of toyling hand and minde
To helpe the grace that can rewarde,
Yet shew it selfe vnkinde.
Finis.
I. K.
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