To the Author

IN Waves of Woe thy Sighs my Soule do tosse,
And make run out the floud-gates of my teares,
Whose rankling Wound no smoothing Baume long beares,
But freely bleeds when ought upbraids my Losse.
'Tis thou so sweetly Sorrow makest to sing,
And troubled Passions dost so well accord,
That more Delight Thy Anguish doth afford,
Than others Joyes can Satisfaction bring.
What sacred Wits (when ravish'd) do affect,
To force Affections, Metamorphose Minds,
Whilst numbrous Power the Soule in secret binds,
Thou hast perform'd, transforming in Effect.
For never Plaints did greater Pitty move,
The best Applause that can such Notes approve.