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Rh

, poor captive at the bar I stand,

The bar of beauty, bar to all my joys;

And up I hold my ever trembling hand,

Wishing or life or death to end annoys.

And when the judge doth question of the guilt,

And bids me speak, then sorrow shuts up words.

Yea, though he say, "Speak boldly what thou wilt!"

Yet my confused affects no speech affords,

For why? Alas, my passions have no bound,

For fear of death that penetrates so near;

And still one grief another doth confound,

Yet doth at length a way to speech appear.

Then, for I speak too late, the Judge doth give

His sentence that in prison I shall live.