Good nature weepes to see hir selfe abused; Ill fortune shewes hir furie in hir face: (15) Poore reason pines to see hir selfe refused: And dutie dies, to see his sore disgrace. Hope hangs the head, to see dispaire so neere; And what but death can end this heauie cheere?
Oh cursed cares, that neuer can be knowne: (20) Dole, worse than death, when neuer tong can tell it: The hurt is hid, although the sorow showne, Such is my paine, no pleasure can expell it. In summe I see, I am ordained I: To liue in dole, and so in sorow die.
(25) Behold each teare, no token of a toy: But torments such, as teare my hart asunder: Each sobbing sigh, a signe of such annoy, That how I liue, beleeue me ’tis a wonder. Each grone, a gripe, that makes me gaspe for breath: (30) And euerie straine, a bitter pang of death.
Loe thus I liue, but looking still to die: And still I looke, but still I see in vaine: And still in vaine, alas, I lie and crie: And still I crie, but haue no ease of paine. (35) So still in paine, I liue, looke, lie, and crie: When hope would helpe, or death would let me die. +
Sometime I sleepe, a slumber, not a sleepe: And then I dreame (God knowes) of no delight, But of such woes, as makes me lie and weepe (40) Vntill I wake, in such a pitious plight; As who beheld me sleeping or awaking, Would say my hart were in a heauie taking.
Looke as the dew doth lie vpon the ground, So sits the sweate of sorow on my face: