(For greater pains, I think, hath no man tried)
Disquiet thoughts, like furies in my breast
Nourished the poison that my spirits possesst.
Now Grief, then Joy; now War, then Peace unstable,
Nought sure I had, but to be miserable.
I cannot utter all, I must confess.
Men may conceive more than they can express!
But (to be short), which cannot be excused,
With vain illusions, Love, my hope abused;
Persuading me I stood upon firm ground