Were it, that swanlyke I foresong my death,
Or mery mynde foresaw the losse of breath,
That long it coueted, from this earth’s annoy:
But euen as siker as th’end of woe is ioy,
And glorious light to obscure night doth tend:
So extreame mirth in extreame moane doth end.
56.
For why, extreames are haps rackt out of course,
By violent might far swinged forth perforce,
Which as they are pearcingst while they violent’st moue,