Vi

Like as the spotless ermelin distressed Circumpassed round with filth and lothsome mud, Pines in her grief, imprisoned to her nest, And cannot issue forth to seek her good; So I invironed with a hatefull want, Look to the heavens; the heavens yield forth no grace; I search the earth, the earth I find as scant, I view myself, myself in wofull case. Heaven nor earth will not, myself cannot make A way through want to free my soul from care; But I must pine, and in my pining lurk Lest my sad looks bewray me how I fare. My fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure, Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.