| |
|
DAyly when I
do seeke and sew for peace,
And hostages doe offer
for my truth:
she cruell warriour doth her selfe
addresse,
to battell, and the weary war renew'th.
Ne wilbe moou'd with reason or with rewth,
to
graunt small respit to my restlesse toile:
but
greedily her fell intent poursewth,
Of my poore life
to make vnpitteid spoile.
Yet my poore life, all
sorrowes to assoyle,
I would her yield, her wrath to
pacify:
but then she seekes with torment and
turmoyle,
to force me liue and will not let me dy.
All paine hath end and euery war hath peace,
but
mine no price nor prayer may surcease.
|
|
|
