University of Virginia Library

The stormes are past

Bonum est mihi quod humiliasti me.

The stormes are past these cloudes are ouerblowne,
And humble chere great rygour hath represt:
For the defaute is set a paine foreknowne,
And pacience graft in a determed brest.
And in the hart where heapes of griefes were growne,
The swete reuenge hath planted mirth and rest,
No company so pleasant as myne owne.
Thraldom at large hath made this prison fre,
Danger well past remembred workes delight:
Of lingring doutes such hope is sprong pardie,
That nought I finde displeasaunt in my sight:
But when my glasse presented vnto me.
The curelesse wound that bledeth day and nyght,
To think (alas) such hap should graunted be
Vnto a wretch that hath no hart to fight,
To spill that blood that hath so oft bene shed,
For Britannes sake (alas) and now is ded.