That I, who did not know myselfe,
Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.
And grew so coy, and nice to please,
As women’s lookes are often soe,
He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth,
Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.
Thus being wearyed with delayes,
To see I pityed not his greeffe,
He goes him to a secret place,
And there he dyed without releeffe.