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Like to the Indians scorched with the Sunne,
The Sunne which they doe as their God adore:
So am I us'd by Love, for evermore
I worship him, lesse favors have I wonne.
Better are they who thus to blacknesse run,
And so can onely whitenesse want deplore:
Then I who pale and white am with griefes store,
Nor can haue hope, but to see hopes undone.
Beesides their sacrifice receiv'd in sight,
Of their chose Saint, mine hid as worthlesse rite,
Grant me to see where I my offerings give.
Then let me weare the marke of Cupids might,
In heart, as they in skin of Phoebus light,
Not ceasing offerings to Love while I Live.