Mine eyes, dissolve your globes in briny streams,
And with a cloud of sorrow dim your sight;
The sun's bright sun is set, of late whose beams
Gave lustre to your day, day to your night.
My voice, now deafen earth with anathemes,
Roar forth a challenge in the world's despite,
Tell that disguised grief is her delight,
That life a slumber is of fearful dreams.
And, woful mind, abhor to think of joy;
My senses all now comfortless you hide,
Accept no object but of black annoy,
Tears, plaints, sighs, mourning weeds, graves gaping wide.
I have nought left to wish, my hopes are dead,
And all with her beneath a marble laid.