Looke in my griefes, and blame me not to morne,
From care to care that leades a life so bad;
Th’Orphan of fortune, borne to be her scorne,
Whose clouded brow dooth make my daies so sad.
Long are their nights whose cares doe neuer sleepe
Loathsome their daies, whome no sunne euer ioyde:
Her fairest eyes doe penetrate so deepe,
That thus I liue booth day and night annoyde.
But since the sweetest roote doth yeeld thus much,
Her praise from my complaint I may not part:
I loue th’effect for that the cause is such,
Ile praise her face, and blame her flintie hart.
Whilst that wee make the world admire at vs,
Her for disdaine, and me for louing thus.