It chid the vice, yet not the men.
Much from him, I profess, I won,
And more, much more, I should have done,
But that I understood him scant:
Now I conceive him by my want;
And pray, who shall my sorrows read,
That they for me their tears will shed:
For truly, since he left to be,
I feel I’m rather dead than he.
Reader, whose life and name did e’er become