If weeping eyes could wash away
Those evils they mourn for night and day,
Then gladly I to cure my fears
With my best jewels would buy tears.
But as dew feeds the growing corn,
So crosses that are grown forlorn
Increase with grief, tears make tears' way,
And cares kept up keep cares in pay.
That wretch whom Fortune finds to fear,
And melting still into a tear,
She strikes more boldly, but a face
Silent and dry doth her amaze.
Then leave thy tears, and tedious tale
Of what thou dost misfortunes call.
What thou by weeping think'st to ease,
Doth by that passion but increase;
Hard things to soft will never yield,
'Tis the dry eye that wins the field;
A noble patience quells the spite
Of Fortune, and disarms her quite.