As from her eyes, a Spring of teares did flow.
Alas, if Fancie drawne by ymag’d things,
Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breede
Then Servants wreck, where new doubts honor brings,
Than thinke my Deere, that in me you doe reede
Of Lovers ruine some thrise sad Tragædie:
I am not I, pittie the tale of me.
I curst thee oft, I pittie now thy case,
Blind hitting Boy, since shee that thee and me
Rules with a becke, so tyranniseth thee,