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That it were best for me to hate and scorne,
And should finde ease, if I began to prooue
The same, I answere, that it doth behooue
Me still to choose the worse, to worser borne.
My piteous wordes she did condemne with fell
And angry lookes, for telling her mine ill
(Infernall greefe and to my soule a hell)
That with such crueltie she should repell
Me so, bicause I did obey her will:
She bid me tell her (O accursed day)
If that my torments were for her or no?
And if I lou’d her so as I did say?
She did commaund, Alas I did obay
Why angry then, if she will haue it so?
Weepe eies of earth O weepe, and weepe no more
My miserie, and whether it doth tend:
Eies of my soule, behold and then deplore
My wretched state, what I was once before,
And what I am, and what must be my end,
O wofull life, O poore afflicted hart,
Tell me (poore soule) how canst thou not but faile
In Passions of such torments, paine, and smart?
With such a thought how dost thou not depart
And perish when no succour can preuaile?
O haplesse louer wretched, and forgot,
Though happy once, and happy but of late:
To day thou diest, but yet thy loue cannot,
To day thy greefes begin their gordian knot,
To day thy ioy doth end, and happy state:
To day thy woes, and sorrowes doe appeere,
To day thy sadnes, and thy paines are knowen,
To day thy sweete content doth finish heere,
To day thy dismall death approcheth neere,
To day thy firmest loue, and faith is knowen.
What doe you now mine eies, what doe you rest?
Let out your flouds, whose streames in greefe doe swell:
For it may be, you may within my brest
Quench out this burning flame, or at the lest,
Coole this great heate that burnes like Mongibelle?
But woe is me, I striue but all in vaine
Against the streame: For golden Tagus streames
Nor Duerus floud, nor Iberus againe,
Can quench this heate or mitigate the paine,
How then my teares? Alas, these are but dreames,
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