The Merchaunt man, whome many seas have taughte,
What horrors breedes where wynde Dominyon beares,
Yet never Rock, nor Rage suche terror broughte,
As nere his home, when storme or shelf hee feares,
For Nature hathe that never faylling scope,
Moste loathe to Loose the moste approching hope.
The Labourer whome tryed body makes,
Holde dere his worcke, w th sighe eche chaunge attendes,
But at no Chaunge, so pinching Care hee takes,
As happy shewes of Corne when Harvest sendes,
For, Reason , will greate sight of hoped blisse
Make greate the Losse, so greate the feare to misse.
Thus tossed in my Shippe of Huge desyer,
Thus toyled in my worcke of Raging Love,
Nowe that I spye the Haven my thoughtes aspyer,
Nowe that some Flower of Fruites my paynes do proove,
My Dreades augment the more in passyons mighte,
Synce Love with Care, and Hope w th feare do feighte.