How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
    And know no end of her owne mysery:
    but wast and weare away in termes unsure,
    twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully.
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
    and shew the last ensample of your pride:
    then to torment me thus with cruelty,
    to prove your powre, which I too wel have tride.
But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide,
    a close intent at last to shew me grace:
    then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
    as meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace.
And wish that more and greater they might be,
    that greater meede at last may turne to mee.