Grief find the words, for thou hast made my brain br So dark with misty vapors, which arise br From out thy heavy mold, that inbent eyes br Can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain. br br Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complain br For my poor soul, which now that sickness tries, br Which ev'n to sense, sense of itself denies, br Though harbingers of death lodge there his train. br br Or if thy love of plaint yet mine forbears, br As of a caitiff worthy so to die, br Yet wail thyself, and wail with causeful tears, br br That though in wretchedness thy life doth lie, br Yet growest more wretched than thy nature bears br By being plac'd in such a wretch as I.