Zelmane.
Over these brookes trusting to ease mine eyes,
(Mine eyes even great in labour with their teares)
I layde my face; my face wherein there lyes
Clusters of clowdes, which no Sunne ever cleares.
In watry glasse my watrie eyes I see:
Sorrowes ill easde, where sorrowes painted be.
My thoughts imprisonde in my secreat woes,
With flamie breathes doo issue oft in sound:
The sound to this strange aier no sooner goes,
But that it dooth with Echoes force rebound.
And make me heare the plaints I would refraine:
Thus outward helps my inward griefes maintaine.
Now in this sande I would discharge my minde,
And cast from me part of my burdnous cares:
But in the sand my tales foretolde I finde,
And see therein how well the writer fares.
Since streame, aier, sand, mine eyes and eares conspire:
What hope to quench, where each thing blowes the fire?