Wounding me with her faire eyes, (70) Ah how Loue can subtillize? And deuise a thousand shifts How to worke men to his drifts, Her it is, for whom I mourne, Her, for whom my life I scorne. (75) Her, for whom I weepe all day, Her, for whom I sigh, and say Either she, or else no creature Shall enioy my loue: whose feature Though I neuer can obtaine, (80) Yet shall my true-loue remaine: Till (my body turn’d to clay) My poore soule must passe away, To the heauens; where I hope It shall finde a resting scope. (85) Then since I loued thee alone, Remember me when I am gone. Scarse had he these last words spoken, But me thought his heart was broken, With great griefe that did abound, (90) (Cares and griefe the heart confound.) In whose heart thus riu’d in three, Eliza written I might see +In Caracters of crimson blood, Whose meaning well I vnderstood. (95) Which, for my heart might not behold: I hied me home my Sheepe to fold.
FINIS. Rich. Barnefielde.