This page needs to be proofread.
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.
