Sonnet 53

O Wofull life! life, no, but living Death,
Fraile Boat of Christall in a rocky Sea,
A Gem expos'd to Fortunes stormy breath,
Which kept with paine with Terrour doth decay:
The false Delights, true Woes thou dost bequeath
My all-appalled Mind so do affray,
That I those envy who are laid in Earth,
And pity those who run thy dreadfull way.
When did mine Eyes behold one chearefull Morne?
When had my tossed Soule one night of Rest?
When did not angry Stars my Designes scorne?
O! now I find what is for Mortalls best:
Even, since our voyage shamefull is, and short,
Soone to strike Saile, and perish in the Port.