This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion

He oft finds med'cine, who his griefe imparts; But double griefs afflict concealing harts, As raging flames who striveth to supresse.

Ah when will this long weary day have end, And lend me leave to come unto my love? How slowly do the hours their numbers spend! How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!

And painefull pleasure turnes to pleasing paine.

Ah, fool! faint heart fair lady ne'er could win.

Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?