The Lover complaineth that deadly Sickness cannot help his Affection

THE ENEMY of life, decayer of all kind,

That with his cold withers away the green,

This other night me in my bed did find,

And offer’d me to rid my fever clean;

And I did grant, so did despair me blind:

He drew his bow with arrow sharp and keen.

And strake the place where Love had hit before;

And drave the first dart deeper more and more.