Nor hope nor with another course to frame:
But that which once may winne thy cruell hart,
Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.
Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde,
That gives no better cares to my just cryes:
Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde,
As I may well recount, but none can prise.
For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour finde
In this olde world, (growne now so to be wise)
I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blinde