My Cynthia hath the waters of mine eyes,
The ready handmaides on her grace attending:
That neuer fall to ebbe, nor euer dryes,
For to their flowe she neuer graunts an ending.
Th’Ocean neuer did attende more duely,
Vppon his Soueraignes course, the nights pale Queene:
Nor paide the impost of his waues more truely,
Then mine to her in truth haue euer beene.
Yet nought the rocke of that hard hart can moue,
Where beate these teares with zeale, and fury driueth:
And yet I rather languish in her loue
Then I would ioy the fayrest she that liueth.
I doubt to finde such pleasure in my gayning,
As now I taste in compas of complayning.