Then I that now perceiu’d his needlesse feare, (20) With heauie smile began to plead my cause: In vaine (quoth I) this endlesse griefe I beare, In vaine I striue to keepe thy grieuous Lawes, If after proofe, so often trusty found, Vniust suspect condemne me as vnsound.
(25) Is this the guerdon of my faithfull heart? Is this the hope on which my life is staide? Is this the ease of neuer-ceasing smart? Is this the price that for my paines is paide? Yet better serue fierce Mars in bloudie field, (30) Where death, or conquest, end or ioy doth yeeld.
Long haue I seru’d, what is my pay but paine? Oft haue I sude, what gaine I but delay? My faithfull loue is quited with disdaine, My griefe a game, my pen is made a play. (35) Yea loue that doth in other fauour finde, In me is counted madnesse out of kinde.
And last of all, but grieuous most of all, Thy selfe, sweete loue, hath kild me with suspect: Could loue beleeue, that I from loue would fall? (40) Is warre of force to make me loue neglect. No, Cupid knowes, my minde is faster set, Then that by warre I should my loue forget.
My Muse indeede to warre enclines her minde, The famous acts of worthy Brute to write: (45) To whom the Gods this Ilands rule assignde,