VIII.
[My dayes, my moneths, my yeares I spend]
[1]
My dayes, my moneths, my yeares I spend
About a moments gaine,
A ioy that in th'inioying ends,
A fury quickly slaine.
2
A fraile delight, like that Waspes life,
Which now both friskes and flies:
And in a moments wanton strife,
It faints, it pants, it dyes.
3
And when I charge my Lance in rest,
I triumph in delight:
And when I haue the ring transperst,
I languish in despite.
4
Or like one in a luke-warme Bath,
Light wounded in a vaine:
Sperts out the spirits of his life.
And fainteth without paine.
