Drowne me not you cruell teares,
Which in sorrow witnes beares
Of my wailing,
And Loves failing.

Flouds but cover, and retire
Washing faces of desire
Whose fresh growing
Springs by flowing.

Meadowes ever yet did love
Pleasant streames which by them move:
But your falling
Claimes the calling

Of a torrent curstly fierce
Past wits power to rehearse;
Only crying,
Or my dying
May instead of verse or prose
My disasterous end disclose.