No grave for woe, yet earth my watery tears devours; Sighs want air, and burnt desires kind pity's showers: Stars hold their fatal course, my joys preventing: The earth, the sea, the air, the fire, the heavens vow my tormenting. Yet still I live, and waste my weary days in groans, And with woful tunes adorn despairing moans. Night still prepares a more displeasing morrow; My day is night, my life my death, and all but sense of sorrow. |