XLVI. George Raleigh

NO sorrow long continueth, as we see,—

The winter cannot waste out all the yeere,—

As time requires, we sad or merry be;

Ill fare sometimes ensweet’neth better cheere;

When clouds are past, we may discerne the sky,

And night once past, the sunne approacheth nigh.

The glasse is runne by which we took our taske,

Our tender muse hath labored as she could;

Her sable vaile she must of force unmaske,

And leave in silence what is left untold;

Begging good readers, in the end of all,

To make good use of this her funeral.

Thus have I now cast anchor on the shore,

Where news of comfort to good hearts I bring;

After hard labour with an ebon oare,

Washt in the current of a sable spring,

Where shallows hindred, there I made to rise

A flood of tears, distilling from mine eyes.

What I have brought lies here in open view,

Nor is it strange nor common unto all:

What a young merchant giveth unto you,

Must be received, be it ne’re so small:

You know great riches are not gain’d in haste;

A little fire makes a great flame at last.