| |
|
When those
renoumed noble Peres of Greece,
thrugh stubborn
pride amongst the[m]selues did iar
forgetfull of the
famous golden fleece,
then Orpheus with his harp
theyr strife did bar.
But this continuall cruell
ciuill warre,
the which my selfe against my selfe
doe make:
whilest my weak powres of passions warreid
arre.
no skill can stint nor reason can aslake.
But when in hand my tunelesse harp I take,
then doe
I more augment my foes despight:
and griefe renew,
and passions doe awake,
to battaile fresh against my
selfe to fight.
Mongst whome the more I seeke to
settle peace,
the more I fynd their malice to
increace.
|
|
|
