And all eares worse than deaffe, that heard not out thy storie.
2 I said thou wert most faire, and so indeede thou art;
I said thou wert most sweete, sweete poyson to my hart;
I said my soule was thine, ô would I then had lied;
I said thy eyes were starres, thy breasts the milken way,
Thy fingers Cupids shafts, thy voice the Angels lay:
And all is said so well, that no man it denied.
3 But now that hope is lost, unkindnes kils delight,
Yet thought and speach do live, thought metamorphisde quite,
For rage now rules the reynes, which guided were by pleasure,