Striue no more,
Forspoken ioyes to spring:
Since care hath clipt thy wing:
But stoope those lampes before:
That nurst thee vp at first, with friendly smiles,
And now through scornes thy trust beguiles

Pine away,
That pining you may please;
For death betides you ease:

Oh sweete and kinde decay;
To pine and die, whilst Loue giues looking on,
And pines to see your pining mone.

Dying ioyes,
Your shrine is constant hart,
That glories in his smart:
Your Tropheis are annoyes,
And on your tombe, by Loue these lines are plaste,
Loe heere they lie, whom scorne defaste.