Long wish't for death, sent by my mistresse doome
Hold take thy prisoner full resolu'd to dye,
But first as cheefe, and in the highest roome
My soule to heauen I doe bequeath on hye,
Now readie to be seuer'd from thy loue:
My sighes to ayer, to Christall springes my teares,
My sad complaintes (which thee could neuer moue)
To mountaines desolate, and deafe, my feares
To Lambes beset with Lyons, my dispare
To night, and irksome dungeons full of dread:
Then shalt thou finde (when I am past this care)
My tormentes which thy cruelties haue bredde
In heauens, clouds, springs, hard mountaines, lambes, and night,
Here once vnited, then disseuer'd quite.