In minds pure glasse when I my selfe behold,
And vively see how my best Dayes are spent,
What Clouds of Care above my Head are roll'd,
What coming Harmes, which I can not prevent:
My begunne Course I (wearied) doe repent,
And would embrace what Reason oft hath told,
But scarce thus thinke I, when Love hath controld
All the best Reasons Reason could invent.
Though sure I know my Labours End is Griefe,
The more I strive that I the more shall pine,
That only Death can be my last Reliefe:
Yet when I thinke upon that Face divine,
Like one with Arrow shot in Laughters Place,
Maulgre my Heart I joye in my Disgrace.