Well may my soul, immortal and divine,
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,
Fidessa, fair Fidessa, thou shalt have!


XXIX

Earth, take this earth wherein my spirits languish;
Spirits, leave this earth that doth in griefs retain you;
Griefs, chase this earth that it may fade with anguish;
Spirits, avoid these furies which do pain you!
O leave your loathsome prison; freedom gain you;
Your essence is divine; great is your power;
And yet you moan your wrongs and sore complain you,
Hoping for joy which fadeth every hour.
O spirits, your prison loathe and freedom gain you;
The destinies in deep laments have shut you
Of mortal hate, because they do disdain you,