WHat potions have I drunk of Siren tears Distill'd from Limbecks foul as hell within, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, Still losing when I saw my self to win ?
What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never ?
How have mine eyes out of their Spheres been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever ?
O benefit of ill, now I find true That better is, by evil still made better.
And ruin'd love when it is built anew Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuk'd to my content, And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
