No doome shall make ones Heaven become his Hell.
When I was forst from Stella ever deare,
Stella, foode of my thoughts, hart of my hart:
Stella, whose eyes make all my temples cleare,
By Yron lawes, of duetie to depart,
Alas I found that shee with mee did smart:
I sawe that teares did in her eyes appeare:
I sawe that sighes her sweetest lips did part:
And her sad words my sadded sense did heare.
For mee, I weepe to see Pearles scattered so: