 | Eglogs, Epytaphes, and Sonettes |  |
Out of an olde Poet.
Fye Fye, I lotheto speake wylt thou my lust,
Compell me nowe,
to doo so foule an acte.
Nay rather God,
with Flame consume to dust.
My carryon vyle,
then I perfourme this facte
Let rather thoughtes,
that long, haue weryed me:
Or sycknes suche
as Fancy fonde hath brought,
O gapyng Hell,
dryue me now downe to the,
Let boylyng sygbes,
consume me all to nought.
| Eglogs, Epytaphes, and Sonettes | |