Thy beaute therto dyd me sure arest.
Alas, wyth love, whan that it doth the please,
Thou mayest cease my care and my payne sone ease.
Alas! how sore maye I nowe bewayle
The pyteous chaunce whyche did me happe;
My ladyes lokes dyd me so assayle,
That sodaynly my herte was in a trap
By Venus caught, and wyth so sore a clap,
That through the greate stroke did perse:
Alas for wo I could not reverse!