Will it neuer better be?
Do the heavnelie fates agree
There shall be no helpe for me?
Nor these eyes shall euer see
Fruite of my desired tree?

No, thoughe fortune haue forsworne me
And faire beawtie so do scorne me,
That suche hatefull thoughtes are borne me
As with cruell cares haue torne me;
Yett hath loue not quite forlorne me.

Love? how (lord) am I deceyued?
Kindnes all amisse conceiued
Where no comfort is receiued
But to plainlie is perceiued
Will of witt and reason reaved.

But what doth this humor move?
Reason hathe no rule of loue;
Hee doth liue in heavne aboue,
Where he wurkes for their behouve
That with sorrow pleasure proue.

Pleasure all to full of paine,
Swete yet be that heavnly vaine
Wherin doth that hope remaine,
That when love was almost slaine
Made him whole at harte againe.