1 So tyr'd are all my thoughts, that sence and spirits faile; Mourning I pine, and know not what I ayle. O what can yeeld ease to a minde, Ioy in nothing that can finde ? 2 How are my powres fore-spoke ? what strange distaste is this ? Hence cruell hate of that which sweetest is : Come, come delight, make my dull braine Feele once heate of ioy againe. 3 The louers teares are sweet, their mouer makes them so : Proud of a wound the bleeding Souldiers grow : Poore I alone, dreaming, endure Griefe that knowes nor cause, nor cure. 4 And whence can all this grow ? euen from an idle minde, That no delight in any good can finde. Action alone mahes the soule blest; Vertue dyes with too much rest.
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