Like as the spotless ermelin distressed
Circumpassed round with filth and lothsome mud,
Pines in her grief, imprisoned to her nest,
And cannot issue forth to seek her good;
So I invironed with a hatefull want,
Look to the heavens; the heavens yield forth no grace;
I search the earth, the earth I find as scant,
I view myself, myself in wofull case.
Heaven nor earth will not, myself cannot make
A way through want to free my soul from care;
But I must pine, and in my pining lurk
Lest my sad looks bewray me how I fare.
My fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure,
Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.