Sonnet 93

GReefe find the words, for thou hast made my vaine
So darke with mistie vapours which arise
From out thy heauie mould, that euen mine eyes
Can scarce discerne the shape of mine owne paine:
Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complaine
For my poore soule which wit that sicknes tries,
VVhich euen to sense, sense of it selfe denies.
Though harbengers of death and of his traine,
The execution of my fate forbeares,
As of a Caitife not vouchsaft to die:
Yet shewe thy hate of life in liuing teares:
That though in wretchednes thy life doth lie,
Thou maist more wretched be than nature beares,
As being plast in such a wretch as I.