I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende.
I see and yet no greater sorrowe take
Than that I looke no more for Stellas sake.
On Cupids bowe, how are my hart strings bent?
That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same:
When most I glorie, then I feele most shame;
I willing run, yet while I runne repent;
My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent,
My verie ynke, turnes straight to Stella’s name:
And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame)