“Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me bloud, and not restoreWhat I have lost with cordiall fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn Before my tears did drown it. Is the yeare onely lost to me? Have I no bayes to crown it?No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted? All wasted? Not so, my heart: but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown ageOn double pleasures: leave thy cold disputeOf what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands,Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.”