Poem 1 From Pierce Penilesse
Why
ist
damnation
to
dispaire
and
die,
When
life
is
my
true
happinesse
disease?
My
soule,
my
soule,
thy
safetye
makes
me
flie
The
faultie
meanes,
that
might
my
paine
appease.
Diuines
and
dying
men
may
talke
of
hell,
But
in
my
heart,
her
seueral
tormentes
dwell.
Ah
worthlesse
Wit,
to
traine
me
to
this
woe,
Deceitfull
Artes
that
nourish
Discontent:
Ill
thriue
the
Follie
that
bewicht
me
so,
Vaine
thoughts
adieu,
for
now
I
will
repent.
And
yet
my
wants
perswade
me
to
proceede,
Since
none
takes
pitie
of
a
Scollars
neede.
Forgiue
me
God,
although
I
curse
my
birth,
And
ban
the
aire,
wherein
I
breath
a
Wretch:
Since
Miserie
hath
daunted
all
my
mirth,
And
I
am
quite
vndone
through
promise-breach.
Oh
friends,
no
friends,
that
then
vngently
frowne,
When
changing
Fortune
casts
us
headlong
downe.
Without
redresse
complaines
my
carelesse
verse,
And
Mydas-eares
relent
not
at
my
moane:
In
some
far
Land
will
I
my
griefes
reherse,
Mongst
them
that
will
be
mou'd
when
I
shall
groane.
England
(adieu)
the
Soyle
that
brought
me
foorth,
Adieu
vnkinde,
where
skill
is
nothing
woorth.
