Loss, my molester, at last patient be,
And satisfied with thy curst self, or move
Thy mournful force thus oft on perjured love,
To waste a life which lives by mischief’s fee.
Who will behold true misery, view me,
And find, what wit hath feigned, I fully prove:
A heaven-like blessing changed, thrown from above
Into despair, whose worst ill I do see,
Had I not happy been, I had not known
So great a loss: a king deposed, feels most [10]
The torment of a throne-like want, when lost,
And up must look to what late was his own.
Lucifer down cast, his loss doth grieve,
My Paradise of joy gone, do I live?
Did I boast of liberty?
’Twas an insolency vain:
I do only look on thee,
And I captive am again.