Looke in my griefes, and blame me not to mourne,
From care to care that leades a life so bad;
Th'Orphan of Fortune, borne to be her scorne,
Whose clowded brow doth make my dayes so sad
Long are their nights whose cares doe never sleepe,
Lothsome their dayes, whome no sunne ever joyd:
Her fairest eyes doe penetrate so deepe,
That thus I live both day and night annoyd.
But sith the sweetest roote doth yeeld thus much,
Her praise from my complaint I may not part:
I love th'effect for that the cause is such;
I'le praise her face, and blame her flinty hart;
Whilst that wee make the world admire at us,
Her for disdaine, and me for loving thus.