I, that was wont to behold her riding like Alexander, hunting like Diana, walking like Venus, the gentle wind blowing her fair hair about her pure cheeks, like a nymph, sometimes sitting in the shade like a goddess, sometimes singing like an angel, sometimes playing like Orpheus; behold the sorrow of this world! once amiss hath bereaved me of all.

O glory, that only sdineth in misfortune, what is become of thy assurance?
All wounds have scars but that of fantasy: all affections their relenting but that of womankind.

Who is the judge of friendship but adversity, only when is grace witnessed but in offences?
There were no divinity but by reason of compassion; for revenges are brutish and mortal.

All those times past, the loves, the sighs, the sorrows, the desires, cannot they weigh down one frail misfortune?
Cannot one drop of gall be hid in so great heaps of sweetness?
I may then conclude, 'Spes et fortuna, valete.' She is gone in whom I trusted; and of me hath not one thought of mercy, nor any respect of that which was Do with me now, therefore, what you list.

I am more weary of life than they are desirous I should perish; which, if it had been for her, as it is by her, I had been too happily born." Murden, 657.