When men shall finde thy flowre, thy glory passe,
And thou with carefull brow sitting alone:
Receiued hast this message from thy glasse,
That tells thee trueth, and saies that all is gone.
Fresh shalt thou see in mee the woundes thou madest,
Though spent thy flame, in mee the heate remayning:
I that haue lou’d thee thus before thou fadest,
My faith shall waxe, when thou art in thy wayning.
The world shall finde this miracle in mee,
That fire can burne, when all the matter’s spent:
Then what my faith hath beene thy selfe shalt see,
And that thou wast vnkinde thou maiest repent.
Thou maist repent, that thou hast scorn’d my teares,
When Winter snowes vppon thy golden heares.