Though thou without desert disdaynest me,
Who for thy sake doth lothe al crueltie:
But for thy loue, with Mars his cruel knife,
I could commaund thy realme, and reaue thy life.
16.
“But (out alas) whilst breath doth lend me life,
My heart shal hate to thrall thy happy state,
What though thou dost refuse to be my wyfe,
Thy hatred tho, shal neuer cause me hate:
But whylste I liue, I wyl thee loue, let fate