English

Raigne in my thoughts, faire hande, sweete eye, rare voyce,
Posses me whole, my hart's triumvirate:
Yet heavy hart to make so hard a choyse
Of such as spoile thy poore afflicted state
For whilst they strive which shall be Lord of all,
All my poore life by them is troden downe:
They all erect their Trophies on my fall,
And yeeld me nought that gives them their renowne
When backe I looke, I sigh my freedome past,
And waile the state wherein I present stand;
And see my fortune ever like to last,

Looke in my griefes, and blame me not to mourne,
From care to care that leades a life so bad;
Th'Orphan of Fortune, borne to be her scorne,
Whose clowded brow doth make my dayes so sad
Long are their nights whose cares doe never sleepe,
Lothsome their dayes, whome no sunne ever joyd:
Her fairest eyes doe penetrate so deepe,
That thus I live both day and night annoyd.
But sith the sweetest roote doth yeeld thus much,
Her praise from my complaint I may not part:
I love th'effect for that the cause is such;

False hope prolongs my ever certaine griefe,
Traytour to me and faithfull to my Love:
A thousand times it promis'd me reliefe,
Yet never any true effect I prove.
Oft when I finde in her no truth at all,
I bannish her, and blame her trecherie;
Yet soone againe I must her backe recall,
As one that dyes without her companie.
Thus often as I chase my hope from mee,

These sorrowing sighes, the smoakes of mine annoy,
These teares, which heate of sacred flame distils,
Are those due tributes that my faith doth pay
Unto the Tyrant whose unkindnes kils.
I sacrifize my youth and blooming yeeres
At her proude feete, and she respects not it:
My flowre untimely's withred with my teares,
And Winter woes, for spring of youth unfit.
She thinkes a looke may recompence my care,
And so with lookes prolongs my long-lookt ease:
As short that blisse, so is the comfort rare,

Come Death, the anchor-hold of all my thoughts,
My last resort whereto my soule appeales,
For all too-long on earth my fancy dotes,
Whilst age upon my wasted body steales.
That hart, being made the prospective of horror,
That honored hath the cruelst faire that lives,
The cruelst faire, that sees I languish for her,
Yet never mercy to my merrite gives:
Thys is her Lawrell and her triumphe's prize,
To tread me downe with foote of her disgrace,
Whilst I did builde my fortune in her eyes,

If Beauty thus be clowded with a frowne,
That pitty shines no comfort to my blis,
And vapours of disdaine so over-growne
That my live's light thus wholy darkned is,
Why should I more molest the world with cryes,
The ayre with sighes, the earth below with teares,
Sith I live hatefull to those ruthlesse eyes,
Vexing with untun'd moane her dainty eares?
If I have lov'd her deerer then my breath,
My breath that calls the heavens to witnes it,
And still must holde her deere till after death,

Restore thy tresses to the golden Ore,
Yeeld Citherea's sonne those Arkes of love;
Bequeath the heavens the starrs that I adore,
And to th'Orient doe thy Pearles remove.
Yeeld thy hands' pride unto th'Ivory white,
I' Arabian odors give thy breathing sweet:
Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright,
To Thetis give the honour of thy feete.
Let Venus have thy graces, her resign'd,

Since the first looke that led me to this error,
To this thoughts-maze, to my confusion tending,
Still have I liv'd in griefe, in hope, in terror,
The circle of my sorrowes never ending,
Yet cannot leave her love that holds me hatefull;
Her eyes exact it, though her hart disdaines me:
See what reward he hath that serves th'ungrateful;
So true and loyall love no favour gaines mee.
Still must I whet my young desires abated
Upon the Flint of such a hart rebelling;
And all in vaine; her pride is so innated,

Why should I sing in verse, why should I frame
These sad neglected notes for her deere sake?
Why should I offer up unto her name
The sweetest sacrifice my youth can make?
Why should I strive to make her live for ever,
That never deignes to give me joy to live?
Why should m'afflicted Muse so much endevour
Such honour unto crueltie to give?
If her defects have purchast her this fame,
What should her vertues doe, her smiles, her love?
If this her worst, how should her best inflame?

Happy in sleepe, waking content to languish,
Imbracing clowdes by night, in day time mourne,
My joyes but shadowes, touch of truth my anguish,
Griefes ever springing, comforts never borne:
And still expecting when she will relent,
Growne hoarce with crying " Mercy, mercy gyve";
So many vowes and prayers having spent,
That weary of myselfe, I loathe to lyve.
And yet the Hydra of my cares renewes
Still new-borne sorrowes of her fresh disdaine:
And still my hope the sommer windes pursues,