XCIV.
Grief! Find the words! For thou hast made my brain
So dark with misty vapours, which arise
From out thy heavy mould, that inbent eyes
Can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain.
Do thou then (for thou canst!) do thou complain
For my poor soul! which now that sickness tries:
Which even to sense, sense of itself denies,
Though harbingers of death lodge there his train.
Or if thy love of plaint yet mine forbears—
As of a caitiff worthy so to die—
Yet wail thyself! and wail with causefull tears!
That though in wretchedness thy life doth lie;
Yet grow'st more wretched than thy nature bears,
By being placed in such a wretch as I!
XCV.
Yet Sighs! dear Sighs! indeed true friends you are,
That do not leave your left friend at the worst:
But as you with my breast I oft have nurst;
So grateful now, you wait upon my care.
Faint coward JOY no longer tarry dare;
Seeing HOPE yield, when this woe strake him first:
DELIGHT protests he is not for the accurst,
Though oft himself my mate in arms he sware.
Nay, SORROW comes with such main rage, that he
Kills his own children, TEARS; finding that they
By LOVE were made apt to consort with me.
Only true SIGHS! you do not go away!
Thank may you have for such a thankful part;
Thankworthiest yet, when you shall break my heart!
