So be my labours endlesse in their turnes
Turne turne Parthenophe turne and relent,
Hard is thine harte and neuer will repent,
See how this hart within my body burnes:
Thou sees it not and therfore thou reiournes
My pleasures, ill my dayes bene ouerspent:
When I begge grace, thou myne intreatie spurnes:
Mine hart with hope vpheld, with feare returnes.
Betwixt these passions endlesse is my fit
Then if thou bee but humaine grant some pitie
Or if a saint sweet mercies are there meedes
Faire louely chast sweet-spoken learned wittie
These make thee saint-like and these saints befit
But thine hard hart makes all these graces weedes.