Upon His Lady's Sickness of the Small-Pox

Cruel and unpartial sickness,
Sword of that arch-monarch Death,
That subdues all strength by weakness,
Whom all kings pay tribute, breath;

Are not these thy steps I track,
In the pure snow of her face,
When thou did'st attempt to sack
Her life's fortress, and it rase?

Th' heavenly honey thou did'st suck,
From her rose cheeks might suffice;
Why then did'st thou mar, and pluck
Those dear flowers of rarest price?

Mean'st thou thy Lord to present
With those rich spoils and adorn,
Leaving me them to lament,
And in ink's black tears thus mourn?

No; I'll in my bosom wear them,
And close lock them in my heart:
Thence, nor time, nor death shall bear them,
Till I from myself do part.