So oft hath moued my minde to mone, So oft hath made my hart to blede. What shall I say of it in dede, Now hope is gone mine olde relefe: (75) And I enforced all to fede, Upon the frutes of bitter grefe?
Of womens changeable
I Wold I found not as I fele, Such changyng chere of womens will, By fickle flight of fortunes whele, By kinde or custome, neuer still. (5) So shold I finde no fault to lay, On fortune for their mouyng minde, So should I know no cause to say This change to chance by course of kinde. So should not loue so work my wo, (10) To make death surgeant for my sore, +So should their wittes not wander so, So should I reck the lesse therfore.
The louer complayneth the losse
of his ladye. +
N O ioy haue I, but liue in heauinesse, My dame of price bereft by fortunes cruelnesse, My hap is turned to vnhappinesse, Unhappy I am vnlesse I finde relesse. (5) My pastime past, my youthlike yeres are gone, My mouthes of mirth, my glistring daies of gladsomnesse: My times + of triumph turned into mone. Unhappy I am vnlesse I finde relesse. My wonted winde to chaunt my cherefull chaunce, (10) Doth sigh that song somtime the balades of my lesse: My sobbes, my sore and sorow do aduaunce. Unhappy I am vnlesse I finde relesse. I mourne my mirth for grefe that it is gone, I mourne my mirth wherof my musing mindefulnesse: