Farre better had it been I had been dead,
And laid full low in latest home, (my grave)
Than with that drinke my selfe for to have fed
Which Laura mine in Christall glasse me gave:
The licor pleasd me I must needs confesse,
Yet to my hart twas poyson nerthelesse.
So that I had contrarie quite effect
To my desire, which I so much did wish,
Love was in fault, who Reason doth reject:
And see my cruell lucke, what hapt in this;
The wine was sweete, yet did his nature turne,
It coold my mouth, but hart within did burne.