My heauie sprite opprest with sorrowes might,
Of wearied limbs the burthen soare sustaines,
With silent grones and harts teares still complaines,
Yet I breath still and liue in lifes despight.
Haue I lost thee? All fortunes I accurse,
Bids thee farewell, with thee all ioyes farewell,
And for thy sake this world becomes my hell.
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