Philip Massinger


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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