WHY art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death, To stop a wretch's breath, That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart A prey unto thy dart? I am nor young nor fair; be, therefore, bold; Sorrow hath made me old, Deformed and wrinkled; all that I can crave Is quiet in my grave. Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel; But to me thou art cruel, If thou end not my tedious misery And I soon cease to be. Strike, and strike home, then; pity unto me, In one short hour's delay, is tyranny. |