The Arbor of Amitie wherin is comprised pleasant Pohems and pretie Poesies, set foorth by Thomas Howell |
To his C.
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The Arbor of Amitie | ||
To his C.
My wofull hart with pinching paine oprest,My carefull corps yclad with heauinesse;
My restlesse lims, that takth no quiet rest,
Doe wishe for death the ende of deepe distresse.
Why should I then prolong my dayes in paine.
Why doe I seeke to heale my helthlesse hart:
Or why doth lyfe in lanquisht limes remaine,
And still increase my bitter bale and smart.
When hart when hands when corps & soule to die,
Doe willing yeelde as lothing lenger lyfe:
And death alone is ende continuallie,
Of worldly woes of cursed care and strife,
Which fiercely flow on me to worke my spight:
Since I of force must now for go thy sight,
Whose face to vewe was onely my delight.
The Arbor of Amitie | ||