So this continuall fountaine of my teares
From that hard rocke of her sweet bewtie trickling,
So shall my tong on her loues musicke tickling,
So shall my passions fed with hopes and feares,
So shall mine hart which wearing neuer weares,
But soft is hardned with her bewties prickling
On which dispaire my vulture seas'd standes pickling
Yet neuer thence his maw full-gorged beares.
Right so, my teares, tong, passions, hart, dispaire
With flouds, complaints, sighes, throbbes, and endlesse sorrow,
In seas, in volumes, windes, earth-quakes, and hell,
Shall floate, chaunte, breath, breake, and darke mansion borrow.
And in them I be blessed for my faire:
That in these torments for her sake I dwell.