Sonnet 7: The Map of Misery

Like to the stone thats cast in deepest waue,
That rests not till the bottom it hath sound,
So I (a wretch) inthrald in sorrowes caue,
With woe and desperations fetters bound:
The captiue slaue imprison'd vnder ground
Doom'b, there by fates t' expire his wofull daies:
With care orewhelm'd, with griefe and sorrow drownd,
Makes mournefull monings, and lamenting layes,
Accusing, and accursing fortunes playes,
Whose wither'd Autume leauelesse leaues his tree,
And banning death for his to long delayes,
Remaines the onely poore despised hee.
If such a one as this, the world confine,
His mischiefes are a sport, compard with mine.