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