Astrophel and Stella: 94

Griefe finde the words, for thou hast made my braineSo darke with misty vapours, which ariseFrom out thy heauy mould, that inbent eyesCan scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine.Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaine,For my poore soule, which now that sicknesse tries,Which euen to sense, sense of it selfe denies,Though harbengers of death lodge there his traine.Or if thy loue of plaint yet mine forbeares,As of a caitife worthie so to die,Yet waile thy selfe, and waile with carefull teares,That though in wretchednesse thy life doth lie,Yet growest more wretched then thy nature beares,By being placed in such a wretch as I.