Should have beene chain'd to Bedlam two houres thence,
45And not a frind of his ere shed a teare
To see him for thy sake distracted there,
But hugge himselfe for loving such as hee
That could runne mad with greefe for loosing thee.
I, haplesse soule, that never knew a frend
50But to bewayle his too untimely end,
Whose hopes (cropt in the bud) have never come
But to sitt weeping on a sencelesse tombe,
That hides not dust enough to count the teares