It is, O Nurse, which on my life doth feed,
And suckes the bloud, which from my hart doth bleed.
But since thy faithfull zeale lets me not hyde
My crime, (if crime it be) I will it reed.
Nor Prince, nor pere it is, whose loue hath gryde
My feeble brest of late, and launched[894] this wound wyde.
Nor man it is, nor other liuing wight; xxxviii
For then some hope I might vnto me draw,
But th’only shade and semblant of a knight,
Whose shape or person yet I neuer saw,