Compare me to the child that plaies with fire,
Or to the fly that dyeth in the flame:
Or to the foolish boy that did aspire,
To touch the glorie of high heaven’s frame.
Compare me to Leander struggling in the waves,
Not able to attaine his safetie’s shore:
Or to the sicke that doe expect their graves,
Or to the captive crying ever more.
Compare me to the weeping wounded Hart,
Moning with teares the period of his life;
Or to the Bore that will not feele his smart,
When he is stricken with the butcher’s knife.
No man to these can fitly me compare:
These live to dye: I dye to live in care.