Delia: Sonnet 21

COme Death the anchor-hold of all my thoughts,
My last resort whereto my soule appeales,
For all too-long on earth my fancy dotes,
Whilst age vpon my wasted body steales.
That hart being made the prospectiue of horror,
That honored hath the cruelst faire that liues,
The cruelst faire, that sees I languish for her,
Yet neuer mercy to my merrite giues.
Thys is her Lawrell and her triumphes prize,
To tread me downe with foote of her disgrace:
Whilst I did build my fortune in her eyes,
And layd my liues rest on so faire a face;
Which rest I lost, my loue, my life and all,
So high attempts to low disgraces fall.