Oh wearisome Condition of Humanity!

Who worships Cupid doth adore a boy; Boys' earnest are at first in their delight, But for a new soon leave their dearest toy, And out of mind as soon as out of sight; Their joys be dallyings and their wealth is play, They cry to have and …

If Nature did not take delight in blood, She would have made more easy ways to good. We that are bound by vows and by promotion, With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites, To teach belief in good and still devotion, To preach of heaven's …

Hard-hearted minds relent and rigor's tears abound, And envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault was found. Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath slain her knight, Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight.

Love is no true-made looking-glass Which perfect yields the shape we bring; It ugly shows us all that was, And flatters every future thing.

Now rime, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endless grief, which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill, Go seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find, Salute the stones that keep the bones that held so good a mind.

In night when colours all to black are cast, Distinction lost, or gone down with the light; The eye — a watch to inward senses placed, Not seeing, yet still having power of sight — Gives vain alarums to the inward sense.