Seccombe and Arber, comps. Elizabethan Sonnets. 1904.
FidessaSonnet XXVIII. Well may my soul, immortal and divine
Bartholomew Griffin (d. 1602)W
That is imprisoned in a lump of clay,
Breathe out laments until this body pine.
That from her takes her pleasures all away.
Pine then, thou loathèd prison of my life!
Untoward subject of the least aggrievance!
O let me die! Mortality is rife!
Death comes by wounds, by sickness, care, and chance.
O earth, the time will come when I’ll resume thee,
And in thy bosom make my resting-place;
Then do not unto hardest sentence doom me!
Yield, yield betimes! I must, and will have grace!
“Richly shalt thou be entombed! since for thy grave,
F