"Where should I finde that melancholy muse,
That never hard of any thinge but mone,
And reade the passiones that her pen doth use,
When she and sorrow sadlye sitt alone
To tell the world more then the world can tell
What fits indeed most fitlye figure hell.
"Lett me not thinke once of the smalest thought
May speake of less then of the greatest gref,
Wher every sence with sorrowes overwrought
Lives but in death, dispayring of relef,