ABSTRACT
Having spent many years in studying how to live, and lived a long time without money; having tired my youth with folly, and surfeited my mind with vanity, I began at length to look back to repentance and address my endeavours to prosperity. But all in vain. I sat up late and rose early, contended with the cold, and conversed with scarcity; for all my labours turned to loss, my vulgar muse was despised and neglected, my pains not regarded or slightly rewarded, and I myself, in prime of my best wit, laid open to poverty. Whereupon, in a malcontent humour, I accused my fortune, railed on my patrons, bit my pen, rent my papers, and raged in all points like a madman. 1 In which agony tormenting myself a long time, I grew by degrees to a milder discontent and, pausing a while over my standish, I resolved in verse to paint forth my passion; which best agreeing with the vein of my unrest, I began to complain in this sort: 2 Why is’t damnation to despair and die When life is my true happiness’ disease? My soul, my soul, thy safety makes me fly The faulty means that might my pain appease. Divines and dying men may talk of hell, But in my heart her several torments dwell. Ah, worthless wit, to train me to this woe; Deceitful arts, that nourish discontent! Ill thrive the folly that bewitch’d me so; Vain thoughts, adieu; for now I will repent. And yet my wants persuade me to proceed, Since none takes pity of a scholar’s need. Forgive me, God, although I curse my birth, And ban the air wherein I breathe, a wretch; Since misery hath daunted all my mirth And I am quite undone through promise-breach. O friends—no friends, that then ungently frown When changing fortune casts us headlong down. 1 Without redress complains my careless verse, And Midas-ears relent not at my moan. In some far land will I my griefs rehearse, Mongst them that will be mov’d when I shall groan. England, adieu, the soil that brought me forth; Adieu unkind, where skill is nothing worth.
