Thomas Nashe (1567-1601 / England)

Why ist damnation to dispaire and die,
When life is my true happinesse disease?
My soule, my soule, thy safetye makes me flie
The faultie meanes, that might my paine appease.
Diuines and dying men may talke of hell,
But in my heart, her seueral tormentes dwell.
Ah worthlesse Wit, to traine me to this woe,
Deceitfull Artes that nourish Discontent:
Ill thriue the Follie that bewicht me so,
Vaine thoughts adieu, for now I will repent.
And yet my wants perswade me to proceede,
Since none takes pitie of a Scollars neede.
Forgiue me God, although I curse my birth,
And ban the aire, wherein I breath a Wretch:
Since Miserie hath daunted all my mirth,
And I am quite vndone through promise-breach.
Oh friends, no friends, that then vngently frowne,
When changing Fortune casts us headlong downe.
Without redresse complaines my carelesse verse,
And Mydas-eares relent not at my moane:
In some far Land will I my griefes reherse,
Mongst them that will be mou'd when I shall groane.
England (adieu) the Soyle that brought me foorth,
Adieu vnkinde, where skill is nothing woorth.