If I were given to mirth, 'twould be more crosse,
Thus to be robbed of my chiefest joy:
But silently I beare my greatest losse
Who's us'd to sorrow, griefe will not destroy.
Nor can I as those pleasant wits injoy
Mine owne fram'd wordes, which I account the drosse
Of purer thoughts, or reckon them as mosse,
While they (wit-sick) themselves to breath imploy.
Alas, thinke I, your plenty shewes your want;
For where most feeling is, wordes are more scant,
Yet pardon mee, live, and your pleasure take.
Grudge not if I (neglected) envy show,
'Tis not to you that I dislike doe owe;
But (crost my self) wish some like me to make.