To cure the sore of sorrow growne so rife
In my grieu’d hart, thus forc’d I was to call
For death to launch the wound with his sharpe knife,
Which griefe had festerd in my loathed life:
Who in his horrid shape himselfe did show
To me poore wretch, with too much paine and woe.
56.
For death at last with such vnkinde constraint
Did force my soule from th’house of her vnrest,
That neuer prince had cause of more complaint: