Hee that his mirth hath loste,
 Whose comfort is dismaid,
Whose hope is vaine, whose faith is scorned,
 Whose trust is all betraid,


 If he have held them deare,
 And cannot cease to moane,
Come, let him take his place by me;
 He shall not rue alone.


 But if the smalest sweete
 Be mixt with all his sowre;
If in the day, the moneth, the yeare,
 He finde one lightsome hower,


 Then rest he by himself;
 He is noe mate for me,
Whose hope is falen, whose succor voyde,
 Whose hart his death must be.


 Yet not the wishèd death,
 That hathe noe plainte nor lacke,
Which, making free the better parte,
 Is onely nature's sacke.


 Oh me! that wer too well,
 My death is of the minde,
Which alwayes yeeldès extreame paines,
 Yet keepes the worst behind.


 As one that lives in shewe
 But inwardly doth die,
Whose knowledge is a bloody field
 Wheare all hope slaine doth lie;


 Whose harte the aulter is,
 Whose spirit, the sacrifize
Unto the Powers whome to appease
 Noe sorrowes can sufize.


 Whose fancies are like thornes,
 On which I goe by night,
Whose arguments are like a hoste,
 That force hath put to flight.


 Whose sense is passion's spye,
 Whose thoughtes, like ruins old
Of Carthage, or the famous towne
 That Sinon bought and sold.


 Which still before my face,
 My mortall foe doth lay,
Whome love and fortune once advanced
 And nowe hath cast away.


 O thoughtes! noe thoughtes but woundes,
 Sometimes the seate of Joy
Sometimes the chaire of quiet rest
 But nowe of all annoy.


 I sowed the feild of peace,
 My blisse was in the Springe;
And day by day I ate the fruit
 That my Live's tree did bring.


 To nettels nowe my corne,
 My feild is turnd to flint,
Where sitting in the cipres shade,
 I reade the hiacint.


 The joy, the rest, the life
 That I enioyed of yore
Came to my lot that by my losse,
 My smarte might smarte the more.


 Thus to unhappie men
 The best frames to the worste;
O tyme, O places. O woordes, O lookes,
 Deere then but nowe accurst!


 In 'was' stood my delight,
 In 'is' and 'shall' my woe;
My horrors fastned in the 'yea,'
 My hope hangs in the 'noe.'


 I looke for noe delight,
 Releefe will come too late;
Too late I finde, I finde too well,
 Too well stoode my Estate.


 Behold, heere is the end,
 And nothing heere is sure:
Ah nothinge ells but plaints and cares
 Doth to the world enduer.


 Forsaken first was I,
 Then utterly foregotten;
And he that came not to my faith,
 Lo! my reward hath gotten.


 Nowe Love, where are thy lawes
 That make thy torments sweete?
What is the cause that some through thee
 Have thought their death but meet?


 Thy stately chaste disdaine,
 Thy secret thanckfulnes,
Thy grace reservd, thy common light
 That shines in worthines.


 O that it were not soe
 Or that I could excuse!
O that the wrath of Jelousie
 My judgement might abuse!


 O fraile unconstant kind,
 And safe in truste to noe man!
Noe woemen angells are, yet loe!
 My mistris is a woman!


 Yet hate I but the falte,
 And not the faultie one;
Nor can I rid me of the bonds
 Wherein I lie alone.


 Alone I lie, whose like
 By love was never yet;
Nor rich, nor poore, nor younge, nor old,
 Nor fond, nor full of witt.


 Hers still remaine must I,
 By wronge, by death, by shame;
I cannot blot out of my minde
 That love wrought in her name.


 I cannot set at naught
 That I have held soe deare,
I cannot make it seem so farre
 That is indeede soe neare.


 Nor that I meane, henceforth
 This strange will to professe:
I never will betray such trust
 And fall to ficklenesse.


 Nor shall it ever faile
 That my word bare in hand:
I gave my word, my worde gave me,
 Both worde and gaift shall stand.


 Syth then it must be thus
 And this is all to ill,
I yeelde me captiue to my curse,
 My harde fate to fulfill.


 The solitarie woodes,
 My Cittie shall become;
The darkest den shalbe my lodge
 Whereto noe light shall come.


 Of heban blacke my boorde;
 The wormes my meate shalbe,
Wherewith my carcase shalbe fed
 Till thes doe feede on me.


 My wine, of Niobe,
 My bed the cragie rocke,
My harmony, the serpent's hisse,
 The shreikinge owle, my cocke.


 Mine exercise naught ells
 But raginge agonies;
My bookes, of spightfull fortune's foiles
 And drerye tragedies.


 My walkes the pathes of plaint,
 My prospect into Hell,
With Sisiphus and all his pheres
 In endles paines to dwell