Song
Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death,
To stop a wretch`s breath,
That calls upon 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.