These plaintiue verse, the Posts of my desire,
Which haste for succour to her slowe regarde:
Beare not report of any slender fire,
Forging a griefe to winne a fames rewarde.
Nor are my passions limnd for outward hewe,
For that no collours can depaynt my sorrowes:
Delia her selfe, and all the world may viewe
Best in my face, how cares hath til’d deepe forrowes.
No Bayes I seeke to deck my mourning brow,
O cleer-eyed Rector of the holie Hill:
My humble accents craue the Olyue bow,
Of her milde pittie and relenting will.
These lines I vse, t’unburthen mine owne hart;
My loue affects no fame, nor steemes of art.