57

O me, the time is come to part,
And with it my life-killing smart:
Fond Hope leave me, my deare must goe,
To meete more joy, and I more woe.
Where still of mirth injoy thy fill,
One is enough to suffer ill:
My heart so well to sorrow us'd,
can better be by new griefes bruis'd.
Thou whom the Heauens themselues like made,
should never sit in mourning shade:
No, I alone must mourne and end,
Who have a life in griefe to spend.
My swiftest pace to wailings bent,
Shewes joy had but a short time lent,
To bide in me where woes must dwell,
And charme me with their cruell spell.
And yet when they their witchcrafts trye,
They only make me wish to dye:
But ere my faith in love they change,
In horrid darknesse will I range.