That heart, wherein all sorrows doth abound,
Lies in this breast and cries aloud for death. 
O blame not her when I am underground
That scorning wished t'out live my panting breath.
O do not her despise,
But let my death suffice, but let my death suffice 
To make all young men wise. 

My loving hopes prolonged my loathed life,
Till that my life grew loathsome to my loved;
Till Death and I were at no longer strife,
And I was glad my death her wish approved,
O let her not be shent,
Yet let my precedent
Make women's hearts relent.