The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.
But, if on me some little drops would flow
Of that the spring was in his learned head,
I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe,
And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.
Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesy,
As messengers of this my painful plight,
Fly to my love where ever that she be,
And pierce her heart with point of worthy wite,
As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spite.