Mvst wretched man, when com'd where woes abound,
Ere to the Sunne, vnclose his eyes to teares?
Whom when scarse borne, one straight to prison beares,
Loos'd from the bellie, in the Cradle bound.
Then rysing by the rod, he doth attend
The misteries of miserie at length,
And still his burthens growing with his strength,
Huge toyles and cares his youths perfection spends.
Last, helping Natures wants, O deare bought breath!
He must haue eyes of glasse, and feete of tree,
Till lyke a bow his bodie turnes to be,
Which age hath bended to be shot by death.
O, ô I see that from the mothers wombe,
There's but a litle steppe vnto the tombe.