Those amber locks, are those same nets my deere,
Wherewith my libertie thou didst surprize:
Loue was the flame, that fired me so neere,
The darte transpearsing, were those Christall eyes.
Strong is the net, and feruent is the flame;
Deepe is the wounde, my sighes do well report:
Yet doe I loue, adore, and praise the same,
That holdes, that burnes, that wounds me in this sort.
And list not seeke to breake, to quench, to heale,
The bonde, the flame, the wound that festreth so;
By knife, by lyquor, or by salue to deale:
So much I please to perish in my wo.
Yet least long trauailes be aboue my strength,
Good Delia lose, quench, heale me now at length.