HOw long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure, <br />And know no end of her owne mysery: <br />but wast and weare away in termes vnsure, <br />twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully. <br />Yet better were attonce to let me die, <br />and shew the last ensample of your pride: <br />then to torment me thus with cruelty, <br />to proue your powre, which I too wel haue tride. <br />But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide, <br />a close intent at last to shew me grace: <br />then all the woes and wrecks which I abide, <br />as meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace. <br />And wish that more and greater they might be, <br />that greater meede at last may turne to mee.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxv-4/
