And take awaie this passions sudden[°] cause."
He heare's me not; hard-harted as he is,
He is the sonne of Time, and hates my blisse.
Time nere looke's backe, the riuers nere returne;[°]
A second springe must help me or[°] I burne.
No, no, the well is drye that should refresh me[°],
The glasse is runne of all my destinie:
Nature of winter learneth nigardize
Who, as he ouer-beares the streame with ice
That man nor beaste maie of their pleasance taste,