Grief, find the words; for thou hast made my brain So dark with misty vapours, which arise From out thy heavy mould, that inbent eyes Can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain. Do thou then (for thou canst), do thou complain, For my poor soul, which now that sickness tries Which even to sense, sense of itself denies, Though harbingers of death lodge there his train. Or if thy love of plaint yet mine forbears, As of a caitiff, worthy so to die; Yet wail thyself, and wail with causeful tears, That though in wretchedness thy life doth lie, Yet grow'st more wretched than thy nature bears, By being placed in such a wretch as I. |