MAD

TRees happier far than I,
Which have the grace to heave your Heads so high,
And over-look those Plaines:
Grow till your Branches kisse that lofty Skie
Which her (sweet selfe) containes.
There make her know mine endlesse Love, and Paines,
And how these Teares which from mine Eyes do fall,
Helpt you to rise so Tall:
Tell her, as once I for her sake lov'd Breath,
So for her sake I now court lingring Death.