Oh powers caelestiall, with what sophistrie
Tooke she delight, to blancke my hart by sorrow,
And in such Riddels act my tragaedie,
Making this day for him, for me to morrow.
Where shall I Sonnets borrow
Where shall I finde brests, sides, and tong,
Which my great wrongs might to the world dispence?
Where my defence?
My Phisicke where? for how can I liue long
That haue forgone myne hart? I'le steale from hence,
From restlesse soules myne Hymnes, from seas my teares,
From windes my sighes, from concaue rockes and steele
My sides and voyces Echo: reedes which feele
Calme blastes still-mouing, which the shepheard beares
For waylefull plaints, my tong shall be:
The land vnknowne to rest and comfort me.