What worldly wight, can hope for heauenly hire, when onely sighes, must make his secret mone: (15) A silent sute, doth seeld to grace aspire, My haplesse hap, doth roule the restlesse stone. Yet Phoebe faire, disdaine the heauens aboue, To ioy on yearth, her poore Edimions loue.
Rare is reward, where none can iustly craue,(20) For chaunce is choyse, + where reason makes no claime: Yet lucke sometimes, dispairing soules doth saue, A happie starre, made Giges ioye attaine. A slauish Smith, + of rude and raskall race, Found meanes in time, to gaine a Goddesse grace. +
(25) Then loftie Loue, thy sacred sailes aduaunce, My sighing seas, shall flowe with streames of teares: Amidst disdaine, driue forth my dolefull chaunce, A valiant minde, no deadly daunger feares. who loues a loft, and sets his heart on hye, (30) Deserues no paine, though he do pyne and dye.
A Louer reiected, complaineth. +
T He trickling teares, that falles along my cheekes, The secret sighes that showes my inward griefe: The present paines perforce, that Loue aye seekes, Bids me renue my cares without reliefe. (5) In wofull song, in dole displaie, My pensiue heart for to bewraie.
Bewraie thy griefe, thy wofull heart with speede, Resigne thy voyce, to her that causde thy woe: with irkesome cries, bewaile thy late done deede, (10) For she thou louest, is sure thy mortall foe. And helpe for thee, there is none sure, But still in paine thou must indure.