Such doublenesse, thy hart doth presse, And croppes it by the roote.
Yet will I pray, euen as I may, (30) That Cupid will requite, Thy froward harte, with such a smart, As I haue by thy spite.
For to bee fed, with wake a bed, And fast at boorde among: (35) Till thou confesse, ah pittilesse, That thou hast doone mee wrong.
On bush and brier, may it appeare, Wherby most men doo pas, Thy faygned fayth, how nere my death, (40) It hath mee brought alas.
That they vncaught, may once bee taught, By reason to refrayne: Their crafty wiles, and subtill smiles: That so in loue can fayne.
(45) A due vniust, sith that I must, Of force declare thee so, The fault is thine, the payne is mine: And thus I let thee go.
¶ The Louer in great distresse comforteth
himselfe with hope. +
O Heauy hart whose harmes be hid, Thy healpe is hurte, thy hap is hard, If thou shouldest brast, as God forbid: Then should I dye without reward.