This grief, nay rage, in me such sturre doth kepe,
And thornes me still, both when I wake and slepe.
Take Cæsar conquest, take my goods, take he
Th’onor to be Lord of the earth alone,
My Sonnes, my life bent headlong to mishapps:
No force, so not my Cleopatra take.
So foolish I, I can not her forget,
Though better were I banisht her my thought.
Like to the sicke, whose throte the feauers fire
Hath vehemently with thirstie drouth enflam’d,