That God that made my soule, and knows what I haue felt,
Who causeth sighes and sorows oft, the sely soule to swelt,
Doth see my torments now, and what I suffer still,
And vnderstands I tast mo griefs, than I can shew by skill.
Hee doth consent I wot, to my ill hap and woe,
And hath accorded with the dame that is my pleasaunt foe,
To make my boyling brest abound in bitter blisse,
And so bereue me of my rest, when heart his hope shall misse.
O what are not the songs, and sighs that louers haue,
When night and day with sweete desires, they draw vnto their graue,