Loves Garden Grief
Vaine loves avaunt, infamous is your pleasure,
Your joy deceit:
Your jewels jests, and worthelesse trash your treasure,
Fooles common bait.
Your pallace is a prison that allureth
To sweet mishap, and rest that paine procureth,
Your garden griefe, hedg'd in with thornes of envie,
And stakes of strife:
Your Allyes errour graveled with Jelosie,
And cares of life.
Your bankes are seates enwrapt with shades of sadnes,
Your Arbours breed rough fittes of raging madnes.
Your beds are sowne with seedes of all iniquitie,
And poys'ning weeds:
Whose stalkes evill thoughts, whose leaves words full of vanity,
Whose fruite misdeedes.
Whose sap is sinne, whose force and operation,
To banish grace, and worke the soules damnation.
Your trees are dismall plantes of pyning corrosives,
Whose roote is ruth.
Whose barke is bale, whose tymber stubborne fantasyes:
Whose pyth untruth.
On which in liewe of birdes whose voyce delighteth:
Of guiltie conscience screeching note affrighteth.
Your coolest summer gales are scalding sighings,
Your shoures are teares,
Your sweetest smell the stench of sinfull livyng,
Your favoures feares,
Your gardener Sathan, all you reape is misery:
Your gaine remorse and losse of all felicitie.