The brazen mon’ments of renowned kings,
Doth thy glass stand? or be thy moulting wings
Unapt to flie? if not, why dost thou spare
A willing breast; a breast that stands so fair?
A dying breast, that hath but only breath
To beg the wound, and strength to crave a death?
O that the pleased heav’ns would once dissolve
These fleshly fetters, that so fast involve
My hamper’d soul; then would my soul be blest
From all those ills, and wrap her thoughts in rest!