And with my Winter all my ioys are dead.
And thou loue-hating Boy, (whom once I loued),
Farewell, a thousand-thousand times farewell;
My Teares the Marble Stones to ruth haue moued;
My sad Complaints the babling Ecchoes tell:
And yet thou wouldst take no compassion on mee.
Scorning that crosse which Loue hath laid vpon mee.
The hardest steele with fier doth mend his misse,
Marble is mollifyde with drops of Raine;