Over these Brookes trusting to ease myne eyes,
(Myne eyes even greate in laboure with theyre teares)
I layed my face, my face wherein there lyes,
Clusters of Cloudes w ch no Sunne ever cleares,
In watery glass my watery eyes I see:
Sorrowes yll easde, where Sorrowes paynted bee.
My thoughtes imprisond, in my secrett woes,
With flamy breath dothe issue ofte in sounde:
The sounde to this straunge Ayer no sooner goes,
But that yt dothe with Echos force rebounde,
And makes mee heare, the playntes I wolde refrayne
Thus owteward helps my inward greef menteyne.
Now in this Sande, I woulde discharge my mynde,
And Cast from mee parte of my Burdenous Cares:
But in the Sandes my paynes foretolde I fynde,
And see therein, howe well the wryter fares.
Synce streame, ayer, sand, myne eyes & eares conspire
What hope to quenche, where eche thing blowes y e fyer?