6

O Strive not still to heape disdaine on me,
Nor pleasure take, your cruelty to show
On haplesse me, on whom all sorrowes flow,
And byding make: as given, and lost by thee.
Alas; ev'ne griefe is growne to pitty me,
Scorne cryes out 'gainst it selfe such ill to show,
And would give place for joyes delights to flow;
Yet wretched I, all tortures beare from thee.
Long have I suffer'd, and esteem'd it deare,
Since such thy will, yet grew my paine more neere:
Wish you my end, say so, you shall it have;
For all the deapth of my heart-held despaire,
Is that for you, I feele not Death for care,
But now Ile seeke it, since you will not save