Their grief by frendship growes, where ruth nor pity raynes,
And so like snow against the Sun, they melt away with pains.
My dayes must finish so, my destny hath it set,
And as the candle out I goe, before hir grace I get.
Before my sute be heard, my seruice throughly knowne,
I shalbe layd in Toumbe ful low, so colde as Marble stone.
To thee fayre Dame I cry, that makes my senses arre,
And plantest peace within my brest and then makes sodain war:
Yet at thy pleasure still, thou must my sowre make sweete,
In graunting me the fauour due, for faythfull Louers meete.