XXIX. When, in difgrace with fortune and men's eyes, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, Yet in these thoughts myself almost defpifing, From fullen earth, fings hymns at heaven's gate: XXX. When to the feffions of fweet filent thought I figh the lack of many a thing I fought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All loffes are reftored and forrows end. |