Lucil, sole comfort of my bitter case,
The only trust, the only hope I haue,
In last despaire: Ah! is not this the daie
That death should me of life and loue bereaue?
What waite I for that haue no refuge left,
But am sole remnant of my fortune left?
All leaue me, flie me: none, no not of them
Stands with my fall: they seeme as now asham’de
That heretofore they did me ought regarde:
They draw them back, shewing they folow’d me,