The merchant man whome gayne dothe teache the sea
Wheare Rockes doe weighte for men the wyndes doe chase
Beaten with waves noe soner kenns the baye
Wheare he was bounde to make the baye
But feare forgott and paynes all overpaste
May present ease receave the bitter taste
The laborer which cursed earthe uppteares
With sweatye browes sometyme with watrye eyes
Ofte Scortchinge sonne ofte clowdye darkenes feares
While uppon chaunce his fruite of labour lyes
But harveste come and corne in fertill stoare
More in his owne he toyled he glades the moare
Thus in my pilgrimage of mated mynde
Seekinge the saynt in whome all graces dwell
What stormes founde me what tormentes I did fynde
Who seekes to knowe aquayntes hime self with hell
But nowe successe hathe gott above annoyes
That sorrowes myghte hathe Ballaunce upp theire Joyes
The merchaunte man whome mayne seas hathe taughte
What horrorres breede where mynde domynione beares
Yett never rocke nor Race suche terrour broughte
When storme or shelfes hee feares
For nature hathe that never faylinge scopes
Moste lothe to loss the most aprochinge hoope
The laborer whose tyered bodye makes
Howlde deere his worke with sighes eache chaunge attendes
But as noe chaunge so pychinge care he takes
As happy shewe of corne when harvest sendes
For Reason woulde greate lighte of hoped blisse
Makes great the losse, soe greate the feare to mysse.
Thus tossed in my shippe of huge desyer
Thus toylinge in my minde of raginge love
Nowe that I spye the haven my thoughtes requier
Now that some flower of fruites my paynes doe prove
My dreades augment the more in passions myghte
Since love with care and hope with feare doe fighte