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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 the want of will.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Of the want of will.

The daies delaie, doeth breede my nights vnreste,
My wished ioyes, makes harte to taste of woe:
The want of will, torments my troubled breste,
Looke what I seeke, of force I must forgoe.
Helde vp by hope, throwne doune by hatefull happe,
I scape a storme, yet slaine through thonder clappe.
Tweene twoo extremes, my life in ballance lyes,
I feede farre of, yet nere the foode I craue:
My footyng failes, and yet my minde doeth ryes,
I lacke no hope, and yet no happ I haue.
Thus struyng still, agaist the streame of strife,
I feede the harte, and weare awaie the life.
Who weau's his webbe, like Spider on the spraie,

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Maie waite for Flies, or spende his tyme in waste:
Who dwelles in doubt, and rests vpon decaie,
Staies for good lucke, where Fortune makes no haste.
He gropes for smoke, and lookes to catche the winde,
That serues in hope, and hatefull happ doeth finde.
Finis.