Of the torments of Hell and the paines of Loue

THough they that wanted graee
and whilome liued héere,
Sustaine such pangues and paines in Hell
as doth by Bookes appéere,
Though restlesse be the rage
of that infernall route,
That voide of feare and Pitties plaint
doe fling the fire aboute,
And tosse the blasing Brands
that neuer shall consume,
And breath on sielie Soules that fit
and suffer furious fume:
Though Tantall, Pelops Sonne,
abide the Dropsie dry,
And sterue with hunger where he hath
both Foode and Water by:
Though Tytius doe indure
his Liuer to be rent
Of Vultures tyring on the same
vnto his spoile ybent:
And Sysiphe though with paine
and neuer stinting drift
Doe role the stone from Mountaines top
and it to Mountaine lift:
Though Belydes doe broile
and suffer endlesse paine,
In drawing water from the déepe
that falleth downe againe:
Though Agamemnons Sonne
such retchlesse rage indure,
By meane of furies that with flame
his griefull smart procure:
Though Mynos hath assignde
Prometheus to the rack,
With hand and foote ystretch awide
till all his lims doe crack;
To leade a lothsome life
and die a liuing death,
Amid his paines to waste his winde
and yet to want no breath:
Though other stand in Stix
with Sulpher that doth flame,
And other plunge in Phlegiton
so gastly for the name:
Though Cerberus, the Kaie
of Plutos Denne that beares,
With hungrie throte and gréedie gripe
the newcome Straunger teares:
Though these condemned Ghostes
such dreadfull paine indures,
Yet may they not compare at all
with pangues that Loue procures.
His tiring farre excéedes
the gnawing of the Gripes,
And with his Whip such lashes giues
that passe Megeras stripes.
He lets the Liuer lie,
tormenting aie the Hart:
He strikes and wounds his bounden thrall
with dubble hedded Dart.
His fire excéedes the flame
of déepe Auernus Lakes:
And where he once pretendes a plague
a spitefull spoile he makes.
His foes doe wake by day
they dread to sléepe the night:
They ban the Sunne, they curse the Moone,
and all that else giues light.
They passe their lothsome liues
with not contented minde:
Their dolefull daies drawe slow to date
as Cupid hath assignde.
To Tantall like, but yet
their case is worse than his:
They haue that they imbrace, but straight
are quite bereft of blis.
They waste their winde in sighes
they bleare their eies with brine:
They breake their bulcks with bowncing griefe,
their harts with lingring pine.
Though Orpheus were aliue
with Musick that appeasde
The vglie God of Lymbo Lake,
and soules so sore diseasde,
By Arte he mought not ease
the Louers feruent fits,
Ne purchace him his harts desire
so troubled are his wits.
No place of quiet rest,
no roome deuoide of ruth:
No swaging of his endlesse paine
whose death doth trie his truth.
His Chamber serues for nought
but witnesse of his plaint,
His Bed and Bolster to bewaile
their Lorde with Loue attaint.
The man for murther caught
and clodgde with yron colde
To sweare that he more happie is
than Louers may be bolde.
For he in little space
his dreadfull day shall sée,
But Cupids thralls in daylie griefes
tormented daylie bée.
A thousand deaths they bide
whilst they in life remaine,
And onely plaints and stormie thoughts
they are the Louers gaine.