Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware,
Nay Sorrow comes with such mayne rage as hee,
Kills his owne children, Teares, finding that they
By Love were made apt to comfort with mee,
Onely true sighes, you do not go away:
Thank may you have for such thankfull part:
Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart.
Though with good cause thou lik’st so well the night.
Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie,
Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be: