How long (vaine Hope!) dost thou my joyes suspend?
Say! must my Expectation know no end?
Thou wast more kind unto the wandring Greek,
Who did ten Yeeres his Wife and Country seek.
Ten lazy Winters in my glasse are run,
Yet my Thoughts travaile seemes but new begun.

Smooth Quicksand, which the easy World beguiles!
Thou shalt not Bury mee in thy false smiles.
They that in hunting Shadowes pleasure take,
May benefitt of thy illusion make.
Since thou hast banish't mee from my content
I here pronounce thy finall Banishment.

Farwell thou Dreame of Nothing! Thou meere Voice!
Gett thee to Fooles, that can feed fatt with noise.
Bid wretches mark't for Death look for Reprieve,
Or men broke on the Wheele perswade to live.
Henceforth my Comfort, and best Hope shall bee,
By scorning Hope, ne're to rely on Thee.