Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death To stop a wretch’s breath, That calls on thee and offers her sad heart A prey unto thy dart? I am nor young nor fair; be, therefore, bold; Sorrow hath made me old, Deformed, and wrinkled; all that I can crave Is quiet in my grave. Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel, But to me thou art cruel If thou end not my tedious misery, And I soon cease to be. Strike, and strike home, then; pity unto me, In one short hour’s delay, is tyranny.
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