Thou poore hart sacrifiz’d vnto the fairest,
Hast sent the incens of thy sighes to heauen:
And still against her frownes fresh vowes repayrest,
And made thy passions with her beautie euen.
And you mine eyes the agents of my hart,
Told the dumbe message of my hidden griefe:
And oft with carefull turnes, with silent art,
Did treate the cruell Fayre to yeelde reliefe.
And you my verse, the Aduocates of loue,
Haue followed hard the processe of my case:
And vrg’d that title which dooth plainely proue,
My faith should win, if iustice might haue place.
Yet though I see, that nought we doe can moue her,
Tis not disdaine must make me leaue to loue her.