Olife more loathsome to my vexed thoughts,
Than noisome parbreak of the Stygian Snakes,
Which fils the nookes of Hell with standing aire,
Infecting all the Ghosts with curelesse griefs:
O dreary Engines of my loathed sight,
That sees my crowne, my honor and my name,
Thrust under yoke and thraldom of a thiefe.
Why feed ye still on daies accursed beams,
And sink not quite into my tortur'd soule.
You see my wife, my Queene and Emperesse,
Brought up and propped by the hand of fame,
Queen of fifteene contributory Queens,
Now thrower to roomes of blacke abjection,
Smear'd with blots of basest drudgery:
And Villanesse to shame, disdaine, and misery:
Accursed Bajazeth, whose words of ruth,
That would with pity cheer Zabinas heart,
And make our soules resolve in ceasles teares:
Sharp hunger bites upon and gripes the root,
From whence the issues of my thoughts doe breake:
O poore Zabina, O my Queen, my Queen,
Fetch me some water for my burning breast,
To coole and comfort me with longer date,
That in the shortned sequel of my life,
I may poure foorth my soule into thine armes,
With words of love: whose moaning entercourse
Hath hetherto bin staid, with wrath and hate
Of our expreslesse band
inflictions.
