Happie in sleepe, waking content to languish,
Imbracing cloudes by night, in day time morne:
All things I loath saue her and mine owne anguish,
Pleas’d in my hurt, inur’d to liue forlorne.
Nought doe I craue, but loue, death, or my Lady,
Hoarce with crying mercy, mercy yet my merit;
So many vowes and prayers euer made I,
That now at length t’yeelde, meere pittie were it.
But still the Hydra of my cares renuing,
Reuiues new sorrowes of her fresh disdayning;
Still must I goe the Summer windes pursuing:
Finding no ende nor Period of my payning.
Waile all my life, my griefes do touch so neerely,
And thus I liue, because I loue her deerely.