Xxv

Tempestuous fortune hath spent all her spight, And thrilling sorrow throwne his utmost dart; Thy sad tongue cannot tell more heavy plight, Then that I feele, and harbour in mine hart: Who hath endur'd the whole, can beare each part. If death it be, it is not the first wound, That launched hath my brest with bleeding smart. Begin, and end the bitter balefull stound;° If lesse then that I feare,° more favour I have found.