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How many nights haue I with paine endur'd?
Which as so many Ages I esteem'd,
Since my misfortune, yet noe whit redeem'd
But rather faster ty'de, to griefe assur'd.
How many houres have my sad thoughts endur'd
Of killing paines? yet is it not esteem'd
By cruell Love, who might have these redeemd,
And all these yeeres of houres to joy assur'd.
But fond Childe, had he had a care to save,
As first to conquer, this my pleasures grave,
Had not beene now to testifie my woe.
I might have beene an Image of delight,
As now a Tombe for sad misfortunes spight,
Which Love unkindly, for reward doth show.