 | Poems (1872) |  |
III. HIS MYNDE NOT QUIETLY SETLED HE WRITETH THUS.
Euen as the waxe doeth melte, or dewe consume awaie
Before the Sunne, so I behold through carefull thoughts decaie:
For my best lucke leads me, to such sinister state,
That I doe waste with others' Loue, that hath myselfe in hate,
And he that beats the bushe, the wishèd birde not getts,
But suche I see as sitteth still and holds the foulyng netts.
Before the Sunne, so I behold through carefull thoughts decaie:
For my best lucke leads me, to such sinister state,
That I doe waste with others' Loue, that hath myselfe in hate,
50
But suche I see as sitteth still and holds the foulyng netts.
The Drone more Honie sucks, that laboreth not at all,
Then doth the Bee, to whose moste paine, least pleasure doeth befall:
The Gardner sowes the seeds, whereof the flowers doe growe,
And others yet doe gather them, that tooke lesse paine I knowe.
So I the pleasant Grape haue pullèd from the Vine,
And yet I languish in greate thirste, while others drinke the wine.
Then doth the Bee, to whose moste paine, least pleasure doeth befall:
The Gardner sowes the seeds, whereof the flowers doe growe,
And others yet doe gather them, that tooke lesse paine I knowe.
So I the pleasant Grape haue pullèd from the Vine,
And yet I languish in greate thirste, while others drinke the wine.
Thus like a wofull wight, I woue the web of woe;
The more I would weede out my cares, the more they seeme to growe:
The which betokeneth forsaken is of me,
That with the carefull Culuer climes, the worne and withered tree,
To entertaine my thoughts, and there my happ to mone,
That nener am less idle loe then when I am alone.
The more I would weede out my cares, the more they seeme to growe:
The which betokeneth forsaken is of me,
That with the carefull Culuer climes, the worne and withered tree,
To entertaine my thoughts, and there my happ to mone,
That nener am less idle loe then when I am alone.
| Poems (1872) | |