Then shal I die with full contented heart,
Having beheld devine Zenocrate,
Whose sight with joy would take away my life,
As now it bringeth sweemesse to my wound,
If I had not bin wounded as I am.
Ah that the deadly panges I suffer now,
Would lend an howers license to my tongue:
To make discourse of some sweet accidents
Have chanc'd thy merits in this worthies bondage.
And that I might be privy to the state,
Of thy deserv'd contentment and thy love:
But making now a vertue of thy sight,
To drive all sorrow from my fainting soule:
Since Death denies me further cause of joy,
Depriv'd of care, my heart with comfort dies,
Since thy desired hand shall close mine eies.