My thoughts hold mortal strife, 
 I do detest my life, 
 And with lamenting cries, 
 Peace to my soul to bring, 
 Oft calls that prince which here doth monarchize; 
 But he, grim-grinning king, 
 Who caitiffs scorns and doth the blest surprise, 
 Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, 
 Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.