Howe is my Sunn, whose beames are shining bright
Become the cause of my darke ouglie night?
Or howe do I captiv’d in this darke plight,
Bewaile the case, and in the cause delight?
My mangled mind huge horrors still doe fright,
With sense possest, and claim’d by reasons right:
Betwixt which two in me I have this fight,
Wher who so wynns, I put my selfe to flight.
Come clowdie feares close up my daseled sight,
Sorrowes suck up the marowe of my might,
Due sighes blowe out all sparkes of joyfull light,
Tyre on despaier uppon my tyred sprite.
An ende, an ende, my dulde penn cannot write,
Nor mas’de head thinke, nor faltring tonge recite.
This cave is darke, but it had never light.
This waxe doth waste it selfe, yet painelesse dyes.
These wordes are full of woes, yet feele they none.
I darkned am, who once had clearest sight.
I waste my harte, which still newe torment tryes.
I plaine with cause, my woes are all myne owne,
No cave, no wasting waxe, no wordes of griefe,
Can holde, shew, tell, my paines without reliefe.