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 And in affliction waſt my better age. My bread ſhall be the anguiſh of my mind, My drink the teares which fro mine eyes do raine, My bed the ground that hardeſt I may finde; So will I wilfully increaſe my paine.

And ſhe my loue that was, my Saint that is, When ſhe beholds from her celeſtiall throne, (In which ſhee ioyeth in eternall blis) My bitter penance, will my caſe bemone, And pitie me that liuing thus doo die: For heauenly ſpirits haue compaſsion On mortall men, and rue their miſerie.

So when I haue with ſorowe ſatiſfide Th’ importune fates, which vengeance on me ſeeke, And th’ eauens with long langour pacifide, She for pure pitie of my ſufferance meeke, Will fend for me; for which I daylie long, And will tell then my painfull penance eeke: Weep Shepheard, weep to make my vnderſong.

Hencefoorth I hate what euer Nature made, And in her workmanſhip no pleaſure finde: For they be all but vaine, and quickly fade, So ſoone as on them blowes the Northern winde, They tarrie not, but flit and fall away, Leauing behind them nought but griefe of minde, And mocking ſuch as thinke they long will ſtay.

I hate the heauen, becauſe it doth withhold Me from my loue, and eke my loue from me;' I hate the earth, becauſe it is the mold Of fleſhly ſlime and fraile mortalitie: I