And seest, and smilest at my sore mishap, that lacke but skill my sorrowes heere to paint: Thy fire from heauen before the hurt I spide, Quite through mine eyes into my brest did glide.
(25) My life was light, my blood did spirt and spring, my body quicke, my heart began to leape: And euery thornie thought did prick and sting, the fruite of my desired ioyes to reape. But he on whom to thinke, my soule still tyers: (30) In bale forsooke, and left me in the bryers.
Thus Fancie strung my Lute to layes of Loue, and Loue hath rock’d my wearie Muse a-sleepe: And sleepe is broken by the paines I proue, and euery paine I feele doth force me weepe. (35) Then farewell fancie, loue, sleepe, paine, and sore: And farewell weeping, I can waile no more.
FINIS. Shep. Tonie.