MY thoughts hold mortal strife; 
   I do detest my life, 
   And with lamenting cries 
   Peace to my soul to bring 
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise: 
   --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.