You trifling toies, which my liues staine haue bin:
You, by whose meanes our coines chiefly growes,
Clothing the backe with pride, the soule with sin:
Lie there (quoth shee) the causers of my care;
This said, her robes she all in pieces tare.
Here-with, as weary of her wretched life,
(Which shee inioy'd with small felicitie)
She ends her fortune with a fatall knife;
(First day of ioy, last day of miserie:)
Then why is death accounted Nature's foe,