Passion II

My heart is set him down 'twixt hope and fears
Upon the stony bank of high Desire,
To view his own made flood of blubbering tears,
Whose waves are bitter salt, and hot as fire:
There blows no blast of wind but ghostly groans
Nor waves make other noise than piteous moans.

As life were spent he waiteth Charon's boat,
And thinks he dwells on side of Stygian lake:
But black Despair sometimes with open throat,
Or spiteful Jealousy doth cause him quake,
With howling shrieks on him they call and cry
That he as yet shall neither live nor die:

Thus void of help he sits in heavy case,
And wanteth voice to make his just complaint.
No flower but Hyacinth in all the place,
No sun comes there, nor any heav'nly saint,
But only she, which in himself remains,
And joys her ease though he abound in pains.