Sonnet 25

HOW long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,

And know no end of her owne mysery:

But wast and weare away in termes unsure,

Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully.

Yet better were attonce to let me die,

And shew the last ensample of your pride:

Then to torment me thus with cruelty,

To prove your powre, which I too wel have tride.

But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide,

A close intent at last to shew me grace:

Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,

As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace.

And wish that more and greater they might be,

That greater meede at last may turne to mee.