Astrophel and Stella: 34

Come let me write, and to what end? to easeA burth'ned hart, how can words ease, which areThe glasses of thy dayly vexing care?Oft cruell sights well pictured foorth do please.Art not asham'd to publish thy disease?Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare:But will not wise men thinke thy words fond ware?Then be they close, and so none shall displease.What idler thing, then speake and not be heard?What harder thing then smart, and not to speake?Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marr'd.Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreakeMy harmes on Inks poore losse, perhaps some findStellas great powers, that so confuse my mind.