1 When I sit reading all alone that secret booke Wherein I sigh to looke How many spots there bee, I wish I could not see, Or from my selfe might flee. 2 Mine eyes for refuge then with zeale befixe the skies, My teares doe cloude those eyes, My sighes doe blow them drie, And yet I liue to die, My selfe I cannot flie. 3 Heauens I implore, that knowes my fault, what shall I doe, To hell I dare not goe, The world first made me rue, My selfe my griefes renew, To whome then shall I sue. 4 Alasse, my soule doth faint to draw this doubtfull breath, Is there no hope in death, O yes, death ends my woes : Death me from me will lose, My selfe am all my foes.
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