University of Virginia Library

Promise is debt, and I my vowe haue past,
Andrugios Tombe, to wash with daylie teares:
Which Sacrifice (although God wot in waste)
I wyll performe, my Alter is of cares.
Of fuming sighes, my offring incense is,
My pittious playntes, in steede of Prayers are:
Yea, woulde to God in penaunce of my mys.
I with the rest, my loathed lyfe might share.
But O in vaine, I wish this welcomde ende,
Death is to slowe, to slaye the wretched wight:
And all to soone, he doth his forces bende,
To wounde their hartes, which wallowe in delight.
Yet in my care, styll goes, my passing Bell,
So ofte as I, Andrugios death doo minde:
So ofte as men, with poynted fingers tell,
Their friendes, my faultes, which by my weedes they finde.
But O the cause, with Death, which threates me most,
I wysh to dye, I dye through wretched woe,
My dying harte, desires to yeelde the ghost,
My traunces straunge, a present death foreshowe.
But as the reede doth bow at euery blast.
To breake the same, when rowghest stormes lackes might,
So wretched I, with euery woe doe waste,
Yet care wants force, to kyll my hart out ryght.
O gratious God and is my gilt so great.
As you the same, with thousand deathes must wreake?
You will it so, else care I could intreate?
With halfe these woes, my thryd of lyfe, to breake.
But what meanst thou Polina, most accurst,
To muse, why God, this pennaunce ioynes thee to?
Whose correction, although we take at worst,
To our great good he doth the same bestow.
So that, syth greefe can not relyue my friend,
Syth scorching syghes my sorrowes cannot drye:
Syth care himselfe, lackes force my lyfe to ende,
Syth styll I lyue that euery howre doe dye:
Syth mighty God appoyntes my pennaunce so,
In mornefull song I wyll my patience show,

Amyd my bale, the lightning ioy, that pyning care doth bring,
VVith patience cheares my heauy hart, as in my vvoes I sing,
I knovv my Gilt, I feele my scurge: my ease is death I see:
And care (I fynde) by peecemeale vveares, my hart to set mee free.
O care, my comfort and refuge, feare not to worke thy vvyll,
VVith patience I, thy corsiues byde, feede on my life thy fyll.
Thy appetyte with syghes and teares, I dayly vvyl procure,
And wretched I, wil vaile to death, throw when thou wilt thy Lure.