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In sekyng rest
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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In sekyng rest

A complaint of the losse of libertie by loue.

In sekyng rest vnrest I finde,
I finde that welth is cause of wo:
Wo worth the time that I inclinde,
To fixe in minde her beauty so.
That day be darkened as the night,
Let furious rage it cleane deuour:
Ne sunne nor moone therin geue light,
But it consume with storme and shower.
Let no small birdes straine forth their voyce,
With pleasant tunes ne yet no beast:
Finde cause wherat he may reioyce,
That day when chaunced mine vnrest.
Wherin alas from me was raught,
Mine owne free choyse and quiet minde:
My life my death in balance braught
And reason rasde through barke and rinde.
And I as yet in flower of age,
Bothe witte and will did still aduaunce:
Ay to resist that burnyng rage:
But when I darte then did I glaunce.
Nothing to me did seme so hye,
In minde I could it straight attaine:
Fansy persuaded me therby,
Loue to esteme a thing most vaine.
But as the birde vpon the brier,
Dothe pricke and proyne her without care:
Not knowyng alas pore fole how nere
She is vnto the fowlers snare,
So I amid disceitfull trust,
Did not mistrust such wofull happe:
Till cruell loue er that I wist
Had caught me in his carefull trappe.
Then did I fele and partly know,
How little force in me did raigne:

V2r


So sone to yelde to ouerthrow,
So fraile to flit from ioye to paine.
For when in welth will did me leade
Of libertie to hoyse my saile:
To hale at shete and cast my leade,
I thought free choise wold still preuaile
In whose calme streames I sayld so farre
No ragyng storme had in respect:
Vntyll I raysde a goodly starre,
Wherto my course I did direct.
In whose prospect in doolfull wise,
My tackle failde my compasse brake:
Through hote desires such stormes did rise,
That sterne and toppe went all to wrake.
Oh cruell happe oh fatall chaunce,
O Fortune why were thou vnkinde:
Without regard thus in a traunce,
To reue fro me my ioyfull minde.
Where I was free now must I serue,
Where I was lose now am I bounde:
In death my life I do preserue,
As one through girt with many a wound.