My loue alas is sicke, fye enuious sicknesse!
That at her brest where rest all ioyes, and ease,
Thou shouldst take such dispight, her to displease,
In whom, all vertues health hath quicknesse:
Thou durst not come in liuing licknesse,
For hadst thou come, thou couldst not her disease, — —
Her bewtie would not let the prease.
Sweet graces (which continually attend her)
At her short breath, breathe short, and sigh so deepe,
Which sicknesses sharpe furies might appease:
Both loues, and graces striue to mende her.
Oh neuer let me rest, but sigh, and weepe:
Neuer but weepe, and sigh, sicke is my loue,
And I loue-sicke, yet Phisicke may befrend her,
But what shall my disease remoue?