When Death did all my joys devour,
on purpose to undoe me.
Thy loss was much, I must confess,
and much to be lamented,
Now thou art almost pittiless,
thy design it is prevented:
To France 'twas thy intent to go,
but therein did'st miscarry,
And trouble 'tis to thee I know,
that thou art forc'd to tarry.