And then he felt the misery of his life.

Full little knowest thou that hast not tride, What hell it is in suing long to bide: To loose good dayes, that might be better spent; To wast long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow. . . . . . . . . . To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares; To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires; 13 To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne, To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne. Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end, That doth his life in so long tendance spend!

A life dragged slowly on / amidst laments, becomes a kind of death.

Long and sorrowful stretched out those days.

For death is gain to him whose life, like mine, is full of misery

Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon.

The sadness will last forever.

His drinke, the running streame, his cup, the bare
Of his palme cloasde, his bed, the hard cold ground:
To this poore life was Misery ybound.

He knew there were disappointments that lasted as long as life.

Life is always travelling to a sorrow.

This long disease, my life.

Great anguish lies in wait for those who long too greatly.

That life is long which answers life's great end.

Long ailments wear out pain, and long hopes joy.