How long shall this like dying life endure,
And know no end of her own miserie? 
But waste and weare away in termes unsure.
Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully:
Yet better were att once to let me die, 
And shew the last ensample of your pride
Then to torment me thus with crueltie, 
To prove your powre, which I too well 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 blis I gladly will embrace, 
And wish that more and greater they might be.
That greater meed at last may turne to me.