Whilst by her eyes pursu’d, my poore hart flew it,
Into the sacred bosome of my deerest:
She there in that sweete sanctuary slew it,
Where it presum’d his safetie to be neerest.
My priuiledge of faith could not protect it,
That was with blood and three yeeres witnes signed:
In all which time she neuer could suspect it,
For well she sawe my loue, and how I pined.
And yet no comfort would her brow reueale mee,
No lightning looke, which falling hopes erecteth:
What bootes to lawes of succour to appeale mee?
Ladies and tyrants, neuer lawes respecteth.
Then there I dye, where hop’d I to haue liuen;
And by that hand, which better might haue giuen.