Sonnet 54

DIssolve my Eyes your Globes in briny Streames,
And with a cloud of Sorrow dim your sight,
The Suns bright Sun is set, of late whose Beames
Gave lustre to your Day, Day to your Night.
My Voice now cleave the Earth with Anathemes,
Roare forth a challenge in the Worlds despight,
Till that disguised Griefe is her delight,
That Life a Slumber is of fearefull Dreames;
And woefull Mind abhor to thinke of Joy,
My Senses all from comforts all you hide,
Accept no object but of black Annoy,
Teares, Plaints, Sighs, mourning Weeds, Graves gaping wide:
I have nought left to wish; My Hopes are dead,
And all with her beneath a Marble laid,