And ever farther off appears the end
Of my awaiting. All my nights are passed
In cries for thee, as some poor mariner
Cries to the angry floods that dash aloft.
For thee I'm mad with love, my pretty one,
Struck with thy mien so full of nobleness.
And I alone must wither, 'mongst my friends.
O unpersuadable, with teasing eyes,
I am in a most pitiable state.
Since thou repell'st me and declin'st to keep