Fidessa more chaste then kinde. By B. Griffin |
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SONNET. XXVIII.
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 | Fidessa |  |
SONNET. XXVIII.
[Well may my soule immortall and diuine]
Well may my soule immortall and diuine,That is imprison'd in a lump of clay,
Breath out laments, vntill this bodie pine:
That from her takes her pleasures all away.
Pine then thou lothed prison of my life;
Vntoward subiect of the least aggrieuance,
Oh let me dye: mortalitie is rife,
Death comes by wounds, by sicknes, care, & chance
Oh earth, the time will come when i'le resume thee,
And in my bosome make thy resting place:
Then doe not vnto hardest sentence doome me,
Yeeld, yeeld betimes, I must and will haue grace.
Richly shalt thou be intomb'd, since for thy graue,
Fidessa, faire Fidessa thou shalt haue.
| Fidessa | |