Sinetes (1597) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Replie and say my fortune is so base,
That you disdaine to lend me any ayde,
Say it is soe, such crosses to embrace,
(Amidst those stormes) I must not be afrayde,
But rather scorne, proude fortune to her face,
Which thus with spite doth worke my deepe disgrace.

Shall I now mourne for what cannot be had,
Great follie were my labour so to loose,
Nay rather seeke some comfort for to glad,
The drooping hart that knowes not what to choose:
For chaunces whose euent be desperate,
Redresse craues speede, or else it coms too late.

Too late the succour coms the fort being sackt,
And comfort, when no comfort can preuaile,
Is torture to the minde alreadie rackt,
When in th' effect true comforts fruite doth faile:
Then lend you ayde before my wracke be such,
That past recal the paines encrease too much.

Now must I sturre to catch a liuely hould,
While fortune bends her frowning brow on me,
Who cannot shift being young will neu'r be ould,
And he that striues with froward destinie:
In fortunes front must seeke a hould to finde,
Else 'twill not be: for she is balde behinde.