What is this strange and uncouth thing?

To make me sigh, and seek, and faint, and die,

Untill I had some place, where I might sing,

And serve thee; and not onely I,

But all my wealth, and familie might combine

To set thy honour up, as our designe.

And then when after much delay,

Much wrastling, many a combate, this deare end,

So much desir'd, is giv'n, to take away

My power to serve thee; to unbend

All my abilities, my designes confound,

And lay my threatnings bleeding on the ground.

One ague dwelleth in my bones,

Another in my soul (the memorie

What I would do for thee, if once my grones

Could be allow'd for harmonie)

I am in all a weak disabled thing,

Save in the sight thereof, where strength doth sting.

Besides, things sort not to my will,

Ev'n when my will doth studie thy renown:

Thou turnest th’ edge of all things on me still,

Taking me up to throw me down:

So that, ev'n when my hopes seem to be sped,

I am to grief alive, to them as dead.

To have my aim, and yet to be

Farther from it then when I bent my bow,

To make my hopes my torture, and the fee

Of all my woes another wo,

Is in the midst of delicates to need,

And ev'n in Paradise to be a weed.

Ah my deare Father, ease my smart!

These contrarieties crush me: these crosse actions

Doe winde a rope about, and cut my heart:

And yet since these thy contradictions

Are properly a crosse felt by thy sonne,

With but foure words, my words, Thy will be done.