Tabellas quas miserat execratur, quod amica noctem negabat

Bewail my chance: the sad book is returned,
This day denial hath my sport adjourned.
Presages are not vain; when she departed,
Nape by stumbling on the threshold started.
Going out again, pass forth the door more wisely,
And somewhat higher bear thy foot precisely.
Hence, luckless tables, funeral wood, be flying,
And thou the wax stuffed full with notes denying,
Which I think gathered from cold hemlock's flower,
Wherein bad honey Corsic bees did pour.
Yet as if mixed with red lead thou wert ruddy,
That colour rightly did appear so bloody.
As evil wood thrown in the highways lie,
Be broke with wheels of chariots passing by,
And him that hewed you out for needful uses
I'll prove had hands impure with all abuses.
Poor wretches on the tree themselves did strangle;
There sat the hangman for men's necks to angle.
To hoarse screech-owls foul shadows it allows,
Vultures and Furies nestled in the boughs.
To these my love I foolishly committed,
And then with sweet words to my mistress fitted;
More fitly had they wrangling bonds contained,
From barbarous lips of some attorney strained.
Among day-books and bills they had lain better,
In which the merchant wails his bankrupt debtor.
Your name approves you made for such like things,
The number two no good divining brings.
Angry, I pray that rotten age you wracks,
And sluttish white-mould overgrow the wax.