Yet, in this [captious] and [intenible] sieve,
I still pour in the [waters] of my love,
And lack not to [lose] still: thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love
For loving where you do: but if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever in so true a flame of [liking]