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What wilfull wight doth thus his kindly rest
Forsake? said she approaching me unto.
What rage, what sorrow, boils thus in thy chest
That thou thus spend'st the night in wasting wo?
Oft help he gets that his hid ill doth Show.
Ay me! said I, my grief's not all mine own;
For all men's griefs into my heart do flow,
Nor men's alone, but every mournfull grone
Of dying beast, or what so else that grief hath shown.

From fading plants my sorrows freshly spring;
And thou thyself that com'st to comfort me,
Would'st strong'st occasion of deep sorrow bring,
If thou wert subject to mortality:
But I no mortall wight thee deem to be,
Thy face, thy voice, immortall thee proclaim.
Do I not well to wail the vanity
Of fading life, and churlish fates to blame,
That with cold frozen death life's chearfull motions tame?

Thou dost not well, said she to me again,
Thou hurt'st thyself, and dost to them no good.
The sighs thou sendest out cannot regain
Life to the dead, thou can'st not change the mood
Of stedfast destiny. That man is wood
That weetingly hastes on the thing he hates:
Dull sorrow chokes the sprights, congeals the blood,
The bodie's fabrick quickly ruinates,
Yet foolish men do fondly blame the hasty fates.