These cheekes, whilome so full of fresh delight,
Now wexed pale and wan, are dri’d vp quite
For want of dew: yet dew’d with sad supplies
Of mournefull teares still flowing from mine eies.
47.
Yeeld then, O yeeld some comfort in this case,
And do not yee augment my deadly smart,
Ile hug sweet death, and with kind armes embrace
His grizly shape, and wooe him with his dart
To end my woes, by wounding my poore heart: