Why should I longer long to live
In this disease of fantasy?
Since Fortune doth not cease to give
Things to my mind most còntrary;
And at my joys doth lour and frown
Till she hath turned them upsidown.

A friend I had, to me most dear,
And of long time faithful and just;
There was no one my heart so near,
Nor one in whom I had more trust;
Whom now of late, without cause why,
Fortune hath made my enemy.

The grass, methinks, should grow in sky,
The stars unto the earth cleave fast;
The water-stream should pass awry,
The winds should leave their strength of blast;
The sun and moon by one assent
Should both forsake the firmament;

The fish in air should fly with fin,
The fowls in flood should bring forth fry;
All things, methinks, should erst begin
To take their course unnaturally
Afore my friend should alter so,
Without a cause to be my foe.

But such is Fortune's hate, I say,
Such is her will on me to wreak,
Such spite she hath at me alway,
And ceaseth not my heart to break:
With such despite of cruelty,
Wherefore then longer live should I?