My chiefest pleasure now is making moan.
Oh world, oh fruitless thought,
Oh luck, my luck, who'st led me thus for spite!...
For loving well, with pain I'm rent....
Nor can I yet repent,
My heart o'erflowed with deadly pleasantness.
Now wait I from no less
A foe than dealt me my first blow, my last.
And were I slain full fast,