If so it hap this of-spring of my care,
These fatall Antheames, sad and mournful songs,
Come to their view who like afflicted are,
Ah let them sigh theyr owne, and mone my wrongs.
But untoucht harts, with unaffected eye,
Approch not to behold so great distresse:
Cleer-sighted, you soone note what is awry,
Whilst blinded ones mine errours never gesse.
You blinded soules whom youth and errors leade,
You outcast Eaglets, dazeled with your sunne,
Ah you, and none but you my sorrowes reade,
You best can judge the wrongs that she hath done:
That she had done, the motive of my paine,
Who whilst I love, doth kill me with disdaine.