by William Alexander
For eyes that are deliuer'd of their birth,
And hearts that can complaine, none needs to care:
I pitie not their sighes that pierce the ayre,
To weepe at will were a degree of mirth:
But he (ay me) is to be pitied most,
Whose sorrowes haue attain'd to that degree,
That they are past expressing, and can be
Onely imagin'd by a man that's lost.
The teares that would burst out yet are restrain'd,
Th'imprison'd plaints that perish without fame,
Sighs form'd and smoother'd ere they get a name,
Those to be pitied are (ô griefe vnfain'd)
Whil'st sighes the voice, the voice the sighs confounds,
Then teares marre both, and all are out of bounds.
Last updated January 14, 2019