O then I loue, and drawe this weary breath,
For her the cruell faire, within whose brow
I written finde the sentence of my death,
In vnkinde letters; wrought she cares not how.
O thou that rul’st the confines of the night,
Laughter-louing Goddesse, worldly pleasures Queene,
Intenerat that hart that sets so light,
The truest loue that euer yet was seene.
And cause her leaue to triumph in this wise,
Vppon the prostrate spoyle of that poore harte:
That serues a trophey to her conquering eyes,
And must their glorie to the world imparte.
Once let her know, sh’hath done enough to proue me;
And let her pittie if she cannot loue me.