| |
|
HOw long
shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
And know no end
of her owne mysery:
but wast and weare away in
termes vnsure,
twixt feare and hope depending
doubtfully.
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
and shew the last ensample of your pride:
then
to torment me thus with cruelty,
to proue your powre,
which I too wel haue tride.
But yet if in your
hardned brest ye hide,
a close intent at last to
shew me grace:
then all the woes and wrecks which I
abide,
as meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace.
And wish that more and greater they might be,
that
greater meede at last may turne to mee.
|
|
|
