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(5) Light was my Loue, that all too light beleeued: Heauens ruthe to dwell in faire alluring faces, That loue, that hope, that damned, and repreeued, To all disgraces.
Loue that misled, hope that deceiu’d my seeing: (10) Loue hope no more, mockt with deluding obiect: Sight full of sorow, that denies the being, Vnto the subiect.
Soul leaue the seat, wher thoughts with endles swelling, Change into teares and words of no persuasion: (15) Teares turne to tongs, and spend your tunes in telling, Sorowes inuasion.
Wonder vaine world at beauties proud refusall: Wonder in vaine at Loues vnkinde deniall, Why Loue thus loftie is, that doth abuse all: (20) And makes no triall.
Teares, words, and tunes, all signifie my sadnes: My speechles griefe, looke pale without dissembling: Sorow sit mute, and tell thy torments madnes, With true harts trembling.
(25) And if pure vowes, or hands heau’d vp to heauen, May moue the Gods to rue my wretched blindnes, My plaints shall make my ioyes in measure euen, With hir vnkindnes.
That she whom my true hart hath found so cruell, (30) Mourning all mirthles may pursue the pleasure, That scornes hir labors: poore in hir ioyes iewell, And earthly treasure.
T. L. Gent.