Weeping, I demonstrate
How sore with reason doth my heart complain
Of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.
Love, whenas first there was of thee imprest
Thereon her image for whose sake I sigh,
Sans hope of succour aye,
So full of virtue didst thou her pourtray,
That every torment light accounted I
That through thee to my breast,
Grown full of drear unrest