That I love not, without I leave to love.
Late tyr’d with woe, even ready for to pine
With rage of love, I call my Love unkinde.
Shee in whose eyes, love though unfelt doth shine,
Sweetely saide, I true love in her should finde.
I joyed, but straight thus watred was my wine:
That love she did, but with a love not blinde.
Which would not let me, whome she lov’d decline.
From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde.
And therefore her loves Authoritie;