These sorrowing sighes, the smaokes of mine annoy;
These teares, which heate of sacred flame distils;
Are these due tributes that my faith dooth pay
Vnto the tyrant; whose vnkindnes kils.
I sacrifize my youth, and blooming yeares,
At her proud feete, and she respects not it:
My flowre vntimely’s withred with my teares,
And winter woes, for spring of youth vnfit.
She thinkes a looke may recompence my care,
And so with lookes prolongs my long-lookt ease:
As short that blisse, so is the comfort rare,
Yet must that blisse my hungry thoughts appease.
Thus she returnes my hopes so fruitlesse euer,
Once let her loue indeede, or eye me neuer.