Raigne in my thoughts faire hand, sweete eye, rare voyce,
Possesse me whole, my harts triumuirat:
Yet heauie hart to make so hard a choise,
Of such as spoile thy poore afflicted state,
For whilst they striue which shall be Lord of all,
All my poore life by them is troden downe:
They all erect their Trophies on my fall,
And yeelde me nought that giues them their renowne.
When backe I looke, I sigh my freedome past,
And waile the state wherein I present stande:
And see my fortune euer like to last,
Finding me rain’d with such a heauie hande;
What can I doo but yeeld, and yeeld I doo,
And serue all three, and yet they spoile me too.