Why ist damnation to dispaire and die, <br />When life is my true happinesse disease? <br />My soule, my soule, thy safetye makes me flie <br />The faultie meanes, that might my paine appease. <br />Diuines and dying men may talke of hell, <br />But in my heart, her seueral tormentes dwell. <br />Ah worthlesse Wit, to traine me to this woe, <br />Deceitfull Artes that nourish Discontent: <br />Ill thriue the Follie that bewicht me so, <br />Vaine thoughts adieu, for now I will repent. <br />And yet my wants perswade me to proceede, <br />Since none takes pitie of a Scollars neede. <br />Forgiue me God, although I curse my birth, <br />And ban the aire, wherein I breath a Wretch: <br />Since Miserie hath daunted all my mirth, <br />And I am quite vndone through promise-breach. <br />Oh friends, no friends, that then vngently frowne, <br />When changing Fortune casts us headlong downe. <br />Without redresse complaines my carelesse verse, <br />And Mydas-eares relent not at my moane: <br />In some far Land will I my griefes reherse, <br />Mongst them that will be mou'd when I shall groane. <br />England (adieu) the Soyle that brought me foorth, <br />Adieu vnkinde, where skill is nothing woorth.<br /><br />Thomas Nashe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-1-from-pierce-penilesse/
