My words I know doe well set forth my minde,
My minde bemones his sence of inward smart;
Such smart may pittie claime of any hart;
Her hart, sweete hart, is of no Tygers kinde,
And yet she heares, and I no pittie finde,
But more I cry, lesse grace she doth impart;
Alas, what cause is there so overthwart,
That Noblenes it selfe makes thus unkinde?
I much doe gesse, yet finde no truth save this,
That when the breath of my complaint doe touch
Those daintie doores unto the Court of Blisse,
The heavenly nature of that place is such:
That once come there, the sobs of my annoyes,
Are metamorphos’d straight to tunes of joyes.