Sonnet (What have I left to doe but dye)

What have I left to doe but dye,
Since Hope, my old Companion,
That train'd me from my Infancy,
My Friend, my Comforter is gone?

Oh fawning, false, deceiving Friend!
Accursed be thy Flatteries,
Which treacherously did intend
I should be wretched to be wise:

And so I am; for being taught
To know thy guiles, have only wrought
My greater misery and pain:

My misery is yet so great,
That, though I have found out the Cheat,
I wish for thee again in vain.