Losse my molester at last patient be,
And satisfied with thy curst selfe, or move
Thy mournefull force thus oft on perjurd love,
To wast a life which lives by mischeifes fee.

Who will behould true misery, view me,
And find what wit hath fain'd, I fully prove;
A heaven-like blessing chang'd throwne from above,
Into Dispaire, whose worst ill I doe see.

Had I not happy beene, I had not knowne
So great a losse, a King depos'd, feeles most
The torment of a Throne-like-want, when lost,
And up must looke to what late was his owne.

Lucifer downe cast, his losse doth grieve,
My Paradice of joy gone, doe I live?