Whom shee emploies, dismisse from thee my wit,
Still to have wrought that thy owne will attends,
For servants shame of Maisters blame doth fit.
O let not Fooles in me thy works approve,
And scorning say, see what it is to love.
When sorrow (using my owne Siers might)
Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,
Through that darke Furnace of my heart opprest,
There shines a joy from thee my onely light:
But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,