Till without Fuell, thou can make hote fire.
What, have I thus betraide my libertie,
Can those black beames, such burning marks engrave
In my free side, or am I borne a slave,
Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie?
Or want I sence to feele my miserie,
Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have,
Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave,
May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie.
Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is;