Drop by drop his sanity runs dry,
And vanity urges to pry,
Alas,
When there is a hope for peace to find,
Man becomes a weapon unwavering of gods' sign
and his silent glare ,
He becomes a grave ,
A mount of flesh ,
With no soul to save ,

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.