Part 24

To what hath not the heauens hatefull bin, Since for the ease of man they weaue sutch woe? By diuers toyles they lap our crosses in With cares and griefes, whereon our mischiefes groe: The bloudy hands and Sword of mortall foe, Doe search mine euill, and would destroy me quite, Through heynous hate and hatefull heaped spite.

Wherefore come not the fatall sisters three, That draw the line of life and death by right? Com furies all, and make an ende of mee, For from the world, my sprite would take his flight. Why comes not nowe fowle Gorgon full in sight, And Typhon's head, that deepe in hell remaynes, For to torment the silly soules in paynes?

It better were for mee to feele your force, Than this missehap of murdring enuy'es rage, By curssed meanes and fall vpon my corse, And worke my ruine amid my flouring age: For if I were dispatch'de in this desire, The feare were gone, of blacke infernall fire.

O Gods of Seas, and cause of blustring winde, Thou Æolus and Neptune to I say, Why did you let my Barke sutch fortune finde, That safe to shore I came by any way? Why brake yee not, agaynst some Rocke or Bay, The keele, the sterne, or els blew downe the Mast, By whose large sayles through surging seas I past?

Had these things hapt, I had not seene this houre, The house of dole where wofull sprites complayne, Nor vserers on me had vsde sutch power, Nor I had seene depaynted in disdayne, The God of care, with whom dead Ghosts remayne. Who howles and Skrekes in hollow trees and holes, Where Charon raygnes among condemned soules.

Ah, ah, since hap will worke my wretched end, And that my ruine by iudgement is decreed: Why doth not happe sutch happy fortune send, That I may lead with me the man in deede, That staynd his fayth, and faylde me at my neede, For gayne of golde, as vsurers do God knowes, Who cannot spare the dropping of their nose?

I should haue slayne the slaue that seru'd me so, O God forbid my hands were brued in blood, Should I desire the harme of friend or foe? Nay better were to wishe mine en'my good: For if my death I throughly vnderstood, I should make short the course I haue to run, Since rest is got when worldly toyle is done.

Alas, alas, my chiefest way is this, A guiltlesse death to suffer as I can, So shall my soule be sure of heauen's blisse, And good renoume shall rest behinde me than, And body shall take end where it began, And fame shall fly before me, ere I flit Vnto the Gods, where Ioue in throne doth sit.

O God conuert, from vyce to vertue now, The heart of him that falseth fayth wyth me, And chaunge his minde and mend his maners throw, That he his fault and fowle offence may see, For death shall make my fame immortall bee: And whiles the Sunne which in the heauens doth shine, The shame is his, and honor shall be mine.

Alas, I mourne not for my selfe alone, Nor for the fame of my Forefathers olde, 'Tys Angelike, that causeth me to mone, 'Tys she that filles my brest with fansies colde, 'Tys shee more worth, than was the fliece of golde, That mooues my minde and breedes sutch passions straunge, As in my selfe I feele a wonderous chaunge.

Haue pitty Lord of hir and mee this day, Since destny thus hath sundred vs in spite, O suffer not hir vertues to decay, But let hir take in friendship sutch delite, That from hir brest all vice be banisht quite: And let hir like as did hir noble race, When I poore man am deade, and out of place.

Alas my hand would write these wofull lines, That feeble sprite denyes for want of might, Wherefore my heart in brest consumes and pines, With deepe desires, that far is from man's sight, But God he sees myne innocencie and right, And knowes the cause of myne Accuser still, Who seekes my bloud to haue on mee his will.