Since that mine ALBA tooke her leave of mee,
I leave have tooke of pleasure and of joy:
And did with sorrow at that time agree,
To sojorne with him in his chiefe Annoy.
My Woes (still greene) encrease continually,
Which faine I would, but cannot remedie.

And were it not but that my dauntlesse Hart,
Doth comfort me with hope of better cheere,
I soone would rid me of this uncouth smart,
And leave this life which I have bought too deare.
Oft do I weep to LOVE, and him I pray,
Either to ease my paines, or me to slay.

Yet though I beg, I finde but small reliefe,
As do at Rich mens gates the Needy poore:
Who more they crie to aggravate their griefe,
The lesse they finde their Almes at the doore.
So LOVE, the more my cries I to him send,
The lesse my plaints, he skornefull doth attend.

And yet my sute is small, small is the Grace
That I desire, (for somewhat I deserve)
Tis only for to die before her face,
From whom in Dutie (yet) I nere did swerve:
That she might know my life doth me annoy,
Unles I might her company enjoy.