O vita, misero longa
To Cawcasus, behoulde PROMETHEUS chain'de,
Whose liver still, a greedie gripe dothe rente:
He never dies, and yet is alwaies pain'de,
With tortures dire, by which the Poëttes ment,
That hee, that still amid misfortunes standes,
Is sorrowes slave, and bounde in lastinge bandes.
For, when that griefe doth grate uppon our gall,
Or surging seas, of sorrowes moste doe swell,
That life is deathe, and is no life at all,
The liver rente, it dothe the conscience tell.
Which being launch'de, and prick'd, with inward care,
Although wee live, yet still wee dyinge are.