Like to huge Clowdes of smoake which well may hide
The face of fairest day, though for a while:
So wrong may shaddow me, till truth doe smile,
And Iustice Sunne-like hath those vapours tyde.
O doating Time, canst thou for shame let slid,
So many minutes, while ills doe beguile
Thy age, and worth, and falshoods thus defile
Thy auncient good, where now but crosses bide?
Looke but once up, and leave thy toyling pace
And on my miseries thy dimme eye place,
Goe not so fast, but give my care some ende,
Turne not thy glasse (alas) unto my ill
Since thou with sand it canst not so farre fill,
But to each one my sorrowes will extend.