SINCE fortune's wrath envieth the wealth Wherein I reigned, by the sight Of that, that fed mine eyes by stealth With sour, sweet, dread, and delight ; Let not my grief move you to moan, For I will weep and wail alone. Spite drave me into Boreas' reign, Where hoary frosts the fruits do bite, When hills were spread, and every plain With stormy winter's mantle white ; And yet, my dear, such was my heat, When others froze, then did I sweat. And now, though on the sun I drive,
Whose fervent flame all things decays ; His beams in brightness may not strive With light of your sweet golden rays ; Nor from my breast his heat remove The frozen thoughts, graven by Love. Ne may the waves of the salt flood Quench that your beauty set on fire ; For though mine eyes forbear the food, That did relieve the hot desire ; Such as I was, such will I be ; Your own ; what would ye more of me ?