Sinetes Dumpe

YE angrie starrs, doe you enuie my estate,
Because content is lodged in my minde;
And therefore will you needes reproue my fate?
That discontent in glorie lookes to finde:
My thoughtes were far aboue my fortunes bent,
Which was your fault to frame vnequall partes,
Except it were of purpose to torment.
Gloring in cloudes to smother my desertes:
When I did yeilde vnto the times despite,
And stroke downe sayle lest shypracke would ensue,
Inforcing nature to subdue delight?
A cuning bayte within my way you threwe.
Ys't then my fault if feathered thoughtes aspire,
Clippe not the winges, that gaue them force to flie,
Eyther giue scope vnto my wish'd desire;
Or salue my sores with present remedie.
Who seekes by art his nature to suppresse,
In vaine doth striue against the raging streame,
My soaring minde procured my distresse?
The braunch will growe vnlesse you cut the steame.