Grief.

Consider sorrows, how they are aright:
Grief, if't be great, 'tis short; if long, 'tis light.

Jove may afford us thousands of reliefs,
Since man expos'd is to a world of griefs.

Sorrows our portion are: ere hence we go,
Crosses we must have; or, hereafter woe.

The less our sorrows here and suff'rings cease,
The more our crowns of glory there increase.

I cannot suffer; and in this my part
Of patience wants. Grief breaks the stoutest heart.

Love-sick I am, and must endure
A desperate grief, that finds no cure.
Ah me! I try; and trying, prove
No herbs have power to cure love.
Only one sovereign salve I know,
And that is death, the end of woe.