Tho can she weepe,[°] to stirre up gentle ruth,
Both for her noble bloud, and for her tender youth.
LI
And said, Ah Sir, my liege Lord and my love,
Shall I accuse the hidden cruell fate,
And mightie causes wrought in heaven above,
Or the blind God,[°] that doth me thus amate,
For hoped love to winne me certaine hate?
Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die.