Viii

Dear to my soul, then, leave, me not forsaken! Fly not! My heart within thy bosom sleepeth; Even from myself and sense I have betaken Me unto thee for whom my spirit weepeth, And on the shore of that salt teary sea, Couched in a bed of unseen seeming pleasure, Where in imaginary thoughts thy fair self lay; But being waked, robbed of my life's best treasure, I call the heavens, air, earth, and seas to hear My love, my truth, and black disdained estate, Beating the rocks with bellowings of despair, Which still with plaints my words reverberate, Sighing, "Alas, what shall become of me?" Whilst echo cries, "What shall become of me?"