That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,
Yet growest more wretched than thy nature beares:
By being plast in such a wretch as I.
Yet sighes, deare sighes, in deede true friends you are,
That do not leave your least friend at the wurst:
But as you with my brest I oft have nurst:
So gratefull now you wait upon my care.
Faint coward Joy, no longer tarrie dare,
Seeing hope yeeld when this woe strake him first,
Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst,