A H poore Conceit, delite is dead, +Thy pleasant daies are doon, The shadie dales must be his walke, That cannot see the sunne.
(5) The world I now to witnes call, The heauens my records be: If euer I were false to Loue, Or Loue were true to me.
I knowe it now, I knew it not, (10) But all too late I rew it, I rew not that I knew it not, But that I euer knew it.
My care is not a fond conceit, That breedes a fained smart, (15) My griefes doe gripe me at the gall, And gnaw me at the hart.
My teares are not those fained drops, That fall from fancies eies, But bitter streams of strange distresse, (20) Wherein discomfort lies.
My sighes are not those heauie sighes, That showes a sickly breath, My passions are the perfect signes, And very paines of death.
(25) In sum to make a dolefull end, To see my death so nie, That sorow bids me sing my last, And so my senses die.
S Hort is my rest, whose toile is ouerlong, +My ioyes are darke, but cleere I see my woe,