My faculties run cross, and prove as weak
10T' indite this melancholy task, as speak:
Indeed all words are vain; well might I spare
This rend'ring of my tortur'd thoughts in air,
Or sighing paper. My infectious grief
Strikes inward, and affords me no relief,
But still a deeper wound, to lose a sight
More lov'd than health, and dearer than the light.
But all of us were not at the same time
Brought forth, nor are we billeted in one clime.