As in my selfe I feele a wonderous chaunge.
Haue pitty Lord of hir and mee this day,
Since destny thus hath sundred vs in spite,
O suffer not hir vertues to decay,
But let hir take in friendship sutch delite,
That from hir brest all vice be banisht quite:
And let hir like as did hir noble race,
When I poore man am deade, and out of place.
Alas my hand would write these wofull lines,
That feeble sprite denyes for want of might,