That kydst the hidden kinds of many a weed,
Yet kydst not one to cure thy sore heart-root,
Whose rankling wound as yet does rifely bleed.
Why livest thou still, and yet hast thy death's wound?
Why diest thou still, and yet alive art found?
"Thus is my summer worn away and wasted,
Thus is my harvest hastened all-to rathe;
The ear that budded fair is burnt and blasted,
And all my hoped gain is turn'd to scathe.
Of all the seed, that in my youth was sown,