Of doubtfull hope.

HIs hope is harde, that seeks for fire from froste,
And feeds on flames, of eager fancie still:
And sowes in hope, and reapes but labour loste,
And wisheth mutche, and wastes with want of will.
Whose mountyng mynde, builds castles in the aire,
And heauie harte, lyes drounde in deepe dispaire.

O restlesse race, that like the howre glasse ronns,
With grains of greef, and so beginns againe:
O fearfull Fate, that all good Fortune shunns,
Oh torment straunge, that hath no ende of paine.
O dreerie life, that death disires in deede,
Whose twined state, vntwistes like feeble threede.