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A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance

framed on Fancies, uttered with verses, and writtee[n] to giue solace to eury well disposed mynde: wherein not withstanding are many heauie Epitaphes, sad and sorowfull discourses and sutche a multitude of other honest pastymes for the season (and passages of witte) that the reader therein maie thinke his tyme well bestowed. All whiche workes for the pleasure of the worlde, and recreation of the worthie, and dedicated to the right honourable sir Thomas Bromley, Knight, Lorde Chancelour of Englande [by Thomas Churchyard]
 

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Of doubtfull hope.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


[35]

Of doubtfull hope.

His hope is harde, that seeks for fire from froste,
And feeds on flames, of eager fancie still:
And sowes in hope, and reapes but labour loste,
And wisheth mutche, and wastes with want of will,
Whose mountyng mynde, builds castles in the aire,
And heauie harte, lyes drounde in deepe dispaire.
O restlesse race, that like the howre glasse ronns,
With grains of greef, and so beginns againe:
O fearfull Fate, that all good Fortune shunns,
Oh torment straunge, that hath no ende of paine.
O dreerie life, that death disires in deede,
Whose twined state, vntwistes like feeble threede.
FINIS.