Passion XII

Waste is the soile where naught but thistles grow,
And barren ground will nothing yeild but weeds,
Unhappie is such that soweth not to mowe,
When hope is lost in care, then comfort bleeds;
Waste soyle, voyde hope, thistles and weedes encrease,
In my mindes waste, that waste for want of peace.

Peace with my soule (although my bodie warrs)
Would qualifie the rigor of my paine,
But that I want and must endure the scarrs,
To ranckle, which doe now begin againe,
When ulcers bleed, then daungers doe ensue,
And carefull thoughts my bleeding sores renew.

Renewed thus I count the clocke of care,
No minute past without the tast of smart,
Not as the diall, which doth oft declare:
The time to passe, yet not perceav’d to stait;
Poets faine, time swiftly to flie away,
Yet time is slow, when sorrowe surges sway.

As rotten ragges being dipt, the water drawes,
By soaking fits out of the vessell cleane,
Ev’n so from me doth sorrowes droth (which thawes,
My congeal’d heart, with cruell cursed speene)
Soake out the joyce and moysture of my braine,
For dropping eies can not from teares refraine.