In merit poor, in cares rich, near the tomb.
'Tis good that I should die, since, being dead,
Nor cruel Amaryllis shall I fear
Nor Love ungrateful whereby I am sped.
Oh, fairer than the heavens, or sun's bright sphere,
Yet harder far than adamant to me,
Ready to hurt, but slow to bring me cheer,
What wind from south or north or east on thee
Harshness did blow, that thou didst thus ordain,
That from thy presence I should ever flee?