H. His Deuises for his owne exercise, and his Friends pleasure [by Thomas Howell] |
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No griefe to wante of due regarde.
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 | H. His Deuises |  |
No griefe to wante of due regarde.
Where sorrow sunck in breast, hath sokt vp euery ioye,What comfort there but cruel care, the source of sharpe anoy?
Adieu delightfull dayes that wretch right well may say,
Whose good endeuour made him dreame, till wakt wt cold decay.
Adieu deluding hope, that lulde thee so on sleepe,
As sleepe thy sences so bereaude, that waking yet dost sleepe.
Sith all the fruite thou findst, for long imployed paine,
Falles out but brakes & brambles sharpe, how mayst thou teares refraine.
When ruth is made rewarde, for fayth that fauour sought,
What hart can choose but pine away, in plaint & pensiue thought?
And cursse eche practise still, through drift of glosing guiles,
That dandled on true meaning minds, by frawde & hellish wiles.
To serue their turnes tyll they, vnto the bones are worne,
And then on sodaine shake them off, in greatest neede forlorne.
Most like the wormes that feede vpon the kernels sweete,
Forsaking huske when foode is spente, to perishe vnder feete,
So they the hartes of men, doe gnawe in peeces smale,
When youth and coine are both consumde, yt leaues them to their thrale.
As some by to much proofe, haue tryed all to true,
Enforst to bid their golden time, so fruitlesse spent adiewe.
| H. His Deuises | |