There is no end nor measure of my grief.
The smiling flow’r salutes the day; it grows
Untouch’d with care; it neither spins nor sows:
O that my tedious life were like this flow’r,
Or freed from grief, or finish’d with an hour:
Why was I born? why was I born a man?
And why proportion’d by so large a span?
Or why suspended by the common lot,
And being born to die, why die I not?
Ah me! why is my sorrow-wasted breath