Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rock, Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath Nothing to think on but ensuing death. What I have been I have forgot to know; But what I am, want teaches me to think on: A man throng’d up with cold: my veins are chill, And have no more of life than may suffice To give my tongue that heat to ask your help; Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, For that I am a man, pray see me burièd.
