My dayes, my moneths, my yeares I spend About a moments gaine, A ioy that in th'inioying ends, A fury quickly slaine. 2 A fraile delight, like that Waspes life, Which now both friskes and flies: And in a moments wanton strife, It faints, it pants, it dyes. 3 And when I charge my Lance in rest, I triumph in delight: And when I haue the ring transperst, I languish in despite. 4 Or like one in a lake-warme Bath, Light wounded in a vaine : Sperts out the spirits of his life. And fainteth without paine.
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer