Xvi

Which I pour forth unto a cruel saint, Who merciless my prayers doth attend, Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint, And never ear unto my woes will lend! But still false hope dispairing life deludes, And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain; But Chloris fair my orisons concludes With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain. Thus do I spend the weary wand'ring day, Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief; Thus I consume the obscure night away, Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief; Thus do I pass my ling'ring life in woe; But when my bliss will come I do not know.