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How well (poore heart) thou witnesse canst, I love,
How oft my grief hath made thee shed forth teares,
Drops of thy dearest blood; and how oft feares
Borne testimony of the paines I prove?
What torments hast thou suffer'd, while aboue
Joy thou tortur'd wert with racks, which longing beares:
Pinch'd with desires, which yet but wishing reares
Firme in my faith, in constancie, to move.
Yet is it said, that sure love cannot be,
Where so small shew of passion is descri'd:
When thy chiefe paine is, that I must it hide
From all, save onely one, who should it see.
For know, more passion in my heart doth move,
Then in a million that make shew of love.