Work, work apace, you blessed sisters three,
In restless twining of my fatal thread.
O let your nimble hands at once agree
To weave it out and cut it off with speed.
Then shall my vexed and tormented ghost
Have quiet pa**age to the Elysian rest,
And sweetly over d**h and fortune boast
In everlasting triumphs with the blest.
But ah, too well I know you have conspired
A lingering d**h for him that loatheth life,
As if with woes he never could be tired;
For this you hide your all-dividing knife.
One comfort yet the heavens have a**igned me,
That I must die and leave my griefs behind me.