Be blind mine eyes, which saw that stormie frowne:
Wither long-watring lippes, which may not kisse:
Pyne armes, which wisht' for sweet embraces misse:
And vpright parts of pleasure, fall you downe:
Wast wanton tender thighes consume for this,
To her thighes elmes, that you were not made vynes:
And my long pleasure in her body grafted,
But at my pleasure her sweet thoughtes repines.
Mine hart with her faire colours should be wafted
Throughout this Oceane of my deepe dispaier:
Why doe I longer liue, but me prepaier
My life togather with my ioyes to finish?
And (long eare this) had I dyed with my care
But hope of ioyes to come, did all diminish.