With smilyng cheare and wildie winking eyes,
Doth drowne with dole amidst the surging streames
Of deepe despayre, the wightes which be most wyse:
Aye me, my wit, my penne cannot deuise
Of beautie braue to make a true discourse,
To thinke thereof I feele my selfe the woorse.
3.
I Pendragon of Britaine crowned king,
The fretting force of beautie’s hateful hewe,
Those frying flames I felt, that hateful sting,