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PASSION. XVII.
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PASSION. XVII.

[Engendred griefe from seede of pleasures vaine]

Engendred griefe from seede of pleasures vaine,
Inforcing still the agents of my smart,
From sinnes aspect, my minde could not refraine,
For fretting lust did cynge my broyled heart,
Till loth to yeilde, yet could not choise but yeild,
When as remorce perforce did win the field.
Then of two harmes making a choise of one,
To salue my soule, I paunde my life a thrall,
And gaue consent to that which makes me moane,
Whereof proceedes the fruite of bitter gall,
Which pen'd my minde that snared in the skies,
In basest sould, where in dispaire it lies.
An abiect throwne before the face of wrath,
That dare not view what I of late enioyed,
Of new-cut grasse naught but a rotten swath,
After the raine the vertue hath destroyed,
My drooping thoughts forsake their wonted seate,
And back decline their sorrowes to repeate.
Thus feeling smart opens the new sear'd vaine,
That bled so fast till lifes blood neere is spent,
And now inclos'd in Laborinth of paine,
I still expect the Mimotavre to rent,
The bondes which doe restraine my libertie,
Clos'd in the caue of woefull miserie.