A dolorous verse, written by him, that in deede was in no small dumpes, when he wrote them.
I F any man doo liue of ioyes berefte,
By heauens I sweare, I thinke that man am I;
Who at this hower, no sparke of ioy haue lefte
But leade a life in endlesse mysery:
I sigh, I sobbe: I cannot well expresse
The greefes I bide without hope of redresse

So many are the causes of my greefe,
That day by day torments my mourning minde
As that almost there can be no releefe
To ease my heart, till ease by death I fynde.
What shall I say? what pangues but I abide?
What pleasure that but is to me denyde?

What sappe of sorrow but I dayly taste?
What mite of myrth that I can once attaine?
What foule despight dooth follow me as faste,
To plague my heart with pangues of deadly paine?
Ten thousand Poets cannot paint the smarte
That I abide within my harmelesse heart.

And why doo I by pen then seeke to shew
The passing pangues that I doo dayly bide?
The pangues I paint by pen (God wot) are few
Comparde to those which I on euery syde
Am faine to feele: and that is worst of all
Without all hope of any helpe at all.

Then you, alas, that reade this mourning vearse,
Waye with your selves what loathsome life I leade:
And let your hearts some sparke of pitty pearce.
To see me thus (as one amazde) halfe dead:
Striuing for life, desyring still to dye
And yet perforce must pine in penurie

And thus an end of writing heere I make,
But not an end of mourning, God he knowes:
For when I seeke one sorrow to forsake
Another greefe a new as freshly growes:
So that of force, myselfe I must content
To dwell in dole vntill my dayes be spent