Harde is the happ wherto my lyfe is Bownde
Fruitles the favors wheron I depende
Deepe the dysgrace wherein my truth is drownde
Doubtfull the dryftes whereto myn actions tende
Eache thinge in me is wythred worne and waste
Save that fyrme love which vowede to yow I have
Whose roote nor Braunche cann never bee defaste
Tyll your disdaynes have layde my lymmes in grave
Uppon my shoulders hanges the moorenynge Blacke
My feltred lockes doo overshade my face
My youthlye yeares off pleasure hath made wrack
And my freshe hope yeldes foule dispayre his place
From sighes to playntes off playntes do teares ensue
In this estate I lyve and Dye for yow.