A solemne sonnet

FORTVNE hath writ characters on my heart,
As full of crosses, as the skinne can holde:
Which tell of torments, tearing euery part,
While death and sorrowe doe my fate vnfolde.

Patience sits leaning like a pining soule,
That had no heart to thinke of hopes reliefe;
While fruitlesse cares discomfort doe enroule,
Within the ground of neuer ending griefe.

Thoughts flie about, as all in feare confounded:
Reason growne mad, with too much mal content,
Loue passion-rent, to see his patience wounded,
With dreadfull terrors of despaires intent:

While care concludes, in comforts ouerthrowne,
Whē death can speak, my passiōs shal be showne.