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- # COMPLAINT.
With obiects manyfold; each feuerall stone,
With wit well blazond śmil’d or made some more.
Lo all these trophies of affections hot,
Of pensfu’d and sabdew’d desires the tender,
Nature hath charged me that I hoord them not,
But yeeld them up where I my selfe must render:
That is to you my origin and endder:
For these of force must your oblations be,
Since I their Aulter, you enpatrone me.
Oh then advance (of yours,) that phrases hand,
Whose white weighes down the airy scale of praise,
Take all these families to your own command,
Hollowed with sighes that burning lunges did raise:
What me your minister for you obaies
Workes under you, and to your audit comes
Their distract parcells, in combined summes.
Lo this deuce was sent me from a Nun,
Or Sister sanctified of holiest note,
Which late her noble fuit in court did shun,
Whose rarest haulings made the bloods done,
For she was sought by spirits of ricchest cote,
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove,
To spend her living in eternal love.
But oh my sweet what labour is to leave,
The thing we have not, mastring what not striues,
Playing the Place which did no forme receive,
Playing patients sports in unconstrained giues,
She that her fame so to her selfe contraues,
The scarres of battaille scapeth by the flight,
And makes her absence valiant, not her might.
Oh pardon me in that my boast is true,
L. The
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