Counting but dust that in her way did lie:
But cease mine eyes, your teares doe witnes well,
That you guiltles therefore your necklace mist,
Curst be the Page from whome the bad torch fell,
Curst be the night which did your will resist,
Curst be the Cochman that did drive so fast,
With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast.
O absent presence Stella is not here,
False flattering hope that with so faire a face,
Bare me in hand that in this Orphane place,