The pangues, the priuie mones,
The inward secrete smarte,
The griefes, the heauie grones,
That vexe my dolefull heart,
So plundge my life in paines,
And reaue mee of all ioy,
That death is onely meanes,
To ridde me from anoy.
I graunt that vitall breath, preserueth life in me,
Yet liue I so, that death more welcome farre should be.
No wight was euer so perplexed with despite,
I liue to tast ech woe, and die to all delight.
Although by outward looks, some deeme me void of thought
Lookes are no certayne bookes, but beare false titles oft.
For sundry times I iest, when ioy (alas) is small,
And laugh amongst the rest, yet haue no lust at all.
Loe thus in secret strife, my lingring dayes are led,
I die yet am aliue: I liue, as being dead.
The more I beare it out, as if I felt no yll,
The greater griefes, no doubt, doe grow within me still.
The thing which doth amate, and most anoy my mind,
Is that my hard estate, no remedy can finde.
As one that loathes to liue, and daily calles for death,
These lines to thee I geue, in witnesse of my fayth.