 | The Works of William Fowler
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XLVI.
Full of desyre bot fraught agane with feare,
I burne by hope, and by dispaire dois freise;
with speide I merche, with als muche I reteire,
and bakward the beholds with lotts wyffs eyes;
I seme content, yet nothing can me pleise,
and in this battell beares a naked harte,
and cairles of my lyfe I scoure the sees
of stormye thoughts and of tempesteous smart;
baith of my weill and woe I pyle the cairt;
I humblye crave, yet allwayes comes behind;
I mereit muche, but rigour smores desert;
I seik for grace, and dois displeasour fynde:
thus do I see approache my fatal houers
quhair loss and shame is myne and blame al yours.
| The Works of William Fowler
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