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.