But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke
The folly doth of our ambition mocke
And splits our hopes: To every Sirens breath
We listen and even court the face of death,
If painted ore by pleasure: Every wave
Ift hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:
So ruinous is the defect of thee,
To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me
Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,
Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.