Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 69

WOrke on my Hart, sterne Griefe, and do thy worst:
Draw it togeather till his Strings do crack:
My Minde will nere be whole till they bee burst:
Then, breake, breake Hart, ere broken bee my Back.
Which vndergoes a World of heauie Harmes,
That well might breake It, and an Hart of Oke:
Then, Griefe extend the vigor of thine Armes
To crush his substance into Sighings smoke.
Hope, thou dost hurt It with thy helping Hand:
Who (Ape-like) kilst it with a kind embrace:
Thy Charge, wan Hope, yeeld to pale Deaths Command,
That Hee my vitall Spirits may haue in Chase:
For, sith good Lucke proues lucklesse in my Loue,
Go hange thee Hope, yet stay, lest I it proue.