That it is farre better not Be, then to be Ill

THe World (the Wombe where all misdeeds are bred)
breedes in my little-World such great offence,
That my Soule, great with Sinne's deliuered
of Griefe, that gaules my bleeding Conscience:

The Mid-wife Flesh, that did the same produce,
giues it the Nurse, curst Nature, it to feede:
And fattens It with full-Breasts of Abuse;
so, Griefe growes great, with Natures grosse misdeeds.

O Nature, Nurse of my Soules foule Disgrace!
ô World, the Nurse of that Nurse (grounds of grief)
Why doe you giue me being, time, and place
sith you doe worse then kill me with reliefe?
For, that relise that doth but nourish Sinne,
Makes our Case worse, then if we ne'er had bin.