What wordes may well suffyse,
my frowarde happe to tell
Whose faythe unto the heavens doth flye;
whose favour fales to Hell
Whose lyttle dropps off sweete;
so sawste with streames of sowar.
As yeldes a deadly dysmall Daye;
for evry pleasinge howar.
What black mystrust that breades;
but in the Jelous breste
Hath sought to stayne my secret faythe;
where frawde dyd never reste
Had fortune with my foes;
conspirde to doe me spighte:
My harte præparde for happe or harme:
woulde holde such chaunce as lyght
Hadd deathe the wracke off all;
doonn me his worste and moste
With dreadles gaspe my Body shoulde;
to heaven have breathd my Ghoste.
But that thy selfe (moste deare)
desertles of my parte;
Wyth doubt and harde suspect shouldst wounde
my faythfull meanynge harte
That so amydst my happ;
dyspayer with sodayne threate
Should will me roote oute all my hope
and for no favor treate
O straunge estate of love;
o worlde; o bryttle kynde
O passyon nott to be conceavde;
but in the fealars mynde
O wordes of lyttle wayghte
to shewe what I doo feele
A tale to blunt with ruthe to pearce;
the harte of hardned steele
O greyfe begunn not ended;
o ende of Joyes begunne
O dyre dysdayne that cuts the threde;
that sweete desyre had spunne
Butt am I in a traunce
or speake I that I knowe
Or ys [it] but a dreame that dothe
delude my senses soe
No no the fatall wordes
styll rynges within myne Eare
The tyme, the place, the talke and all:
too well in mynde I beare
The bendynge of the browes;
whearwith too soone I fownde
The byttar blaste that shooke the bowes
and threwe the fruyts to grownde
Wheare thoughe they scorned lye;
and troden under foote
Yett growes the tree and holdes hys place:
so depe ys gonn the Roote
And hardely maye yt quayle
through wronge, through spite, or greyfe
Yf that the sunshyne of thy Eyes
butt lende thearto releyfe.
Butt leaves off lyvely greene
I will not hope withall
Except thy droppes off grace and love
uppon the braunches fale
Which yff thow so vowechafe;
as Gods so graunte it me
Those leaves may blossomes bringe in tyme;
and blossomes fruyte may bee
But yf thy will be Bente
to murdar my Desyre
For fuell yett the tree shall serve
to mayntaine Cupids fyre
And say when thow shalt see
the same consumde to duste
That tymber bettar might have servde
to buylde theareon thy truste.