And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see,
How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes)
That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.
Come let me write, and to what end? to ease
A burthened hart, (how can words ease, which are
The glasses of thy daily vexing care?)
Oft cruell fights well pictured forth doe please,
Art not asham’d to publish thy disease?
Nay, that may breede my fame, it is so rare,
But will not wise men thinke thy words fonde ware?