Hath made me slide that neuer thought to fall:
Hir eyes, hir grace, hir deedes and maners milde,
So straines my heart that loue hath Wit begilde.
But not one dart of Cupide did me wounde,
A hundred shaftes lights all on me at ones:
As though dame kind some new deuise had founde,
To teare my flesh, and crash a two my bones:
And yet I feele sutch ioy in these my woes
That as I die my sprite to pleasure goes.
These new found fits sutch change in me doe breede,