Of the want of will.

THe daies delaie, doeth breede my nights vnreste,
My wished ioyes, makes harte to taste of woe:
The want of will, torments my troubled breste,
Looke what I seeke, of force I must forgoe.
Helde vp by hope, throwne doune by hatefull happe,
I scape a storme, yet slaine through thonder clappe.

Tweene twoo extremes, my life in ballance lyes,
I feede farre of, yet nere the foode I craue:
My footyng failes, and yet my minde doeth ryes,
I lacke no hope, and yet no happ I haue.
Thus striuyng still, agaist the streame of strife,
I feede the harte, and weare awaie the life.

Who weau's his webbe, like Spider on the spraie,
Maie waite for Flies, or spende his tyme in waste:
Who dwelles in doubt, and rests vpon decaie,
Staies for good lucke, where Fortune makes no haste.
He gropes for smoke, and lookes to catche the winde,
That serues in hope, and hatefull happ doeth finde.