Phœbus drewe wide the Curtaine of the skyes
To blase the last, and swore devoutly then:
The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen.
Alas, have I not paine enough my friend,
Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,
Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;
While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,
But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,
To greeve me worse in saying, that desier
Doth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mier