The starre of my mishappe impos’d this payning,
To spend the Aprill of my yeers in wayling,
That neuer found my fortune but in wayning,
With still fresh cares my present woes assayling.
Yet her I blame not, though she might haue blest mee,
But my desires wings so high aspiring:
Now melted with the sunne that hath possest mee,
Downe doe I fall from off my high desiring;
And in my fall doe cry for mercy speedy,
No pittying eye lookes backe vppon my mourning:
No helpe I finde when now most fauour neede I,
Th’Ocean of my teares must drowne me burning,
And this my death shall christen her anew,
And giue the cruell Faire her tytle dew.