Sorrow in my heart breedeth

SORROW in my heart breedeth
A Cocatrices neast:
Where euery young bird feedeth,
Vpon my hearts vnrest.

Where euery pecke they giue mee
(Which euery houre they doe)
Vnto such paine they driue mee,
I knowe not what to doe.

Oh broode vnhapp'ly hatched,
Of such a cursed kinde,
Where death and sorrowe, matched,
Liue, but to kill the minde.

Wordes torments are but trifles,
That but conceits confounde,
And Natures griefes, but nifles,
Vnto the spirits wounde.

They are but cares good morrowes,
That passions can declare:
While my hearts inward sorrowes,
Are all without compare.

Fortune, she seekes to sweare mee,
To all may discontent me;
Yet sayes she doth forbeare mee,
She doth no more torment mee.

Beauty she doth retaine mee
In scarce a fauours tittle:
And, though she doe disdeigne mee,
She thinkes my griefe too little.

Loue falles into a laughing,
At reasons little good,
While sorrow with her quaffing,
Is drunke with my heart blood.

But, let her drinke, and spare not,
Vntill my heart be dry:
And, let loue laugh: I care not:
My hope is, I shall dy.

And death shall only tell
My froward fortunes fashion,
That nearest vnto hell,
Was found the louers passion.