LORD AIRTH's COMPLAINT

If these sad thoughts could be express'd, Wharwith my mind is now possess'd, My passion micht, disclos'd, have rest, My griefs reveal'd micht flie: But still that mind which dothe forbere To yield a groan, a sich, or teire, May by its prudence, much I fear, Encrease it's miserie.

My heart which ceases now to plaine, To speke it's griefs in mournful straine, And by sad accents ease my paine, Is stupefied with woe. For lesser cares doe murne and crie, While greater cares are mute and die; As issues run a fountain drie, Which stop'd wold overflow.

My sichs are fled; no teirs now rin, But swell to whelm my soul within, How pitieful the case I'm in, Admire but doe not trie. My crosses I micht justly pruve, Are common forrows far abuve; My griefs ay in a circle muve, And will doe till I die.