Woe to you all, that did conspire with foes

To drowne my better dayes in bitter woes.

53.

Why do I liue? ah, why liue I the space,

Of half a day in this my mournefull mew?

Why doth grim death so often shew his face?

The woefull waste in me why doth he view

Of nature’s worke: and yet not craue his due?

Why do I liue, yet daylie die with paine?

Why do I die, yet daylie liue againe?