Myne eyes thinke yow that still myne eyes yow are
not so myne eyes but lowrynge Clowdes of showers
My harte is butt a fylde off blooddy warr
and my dyspayre a gulfe that me devoures

I am nott now the man I was off yore
onely of me remaynes my weary ghoste
Which after yow doth followe flye and Soare
as one enjoyinge leaste yett lovinge moste

I lyve to longe to fynde myne owne dysgrace
affronted with such sighes as mate my mynde
I dye to thynke that youth muste so gyve place
to shipwrackt love and heares of hoary kinde

Butt thow who so thowe bee myne overthrowe
whose wastede yeares should such greene hope resigne
Off thy dyselykes surcease the fayned shewe
thy hell ys heaven to this dispight off myne.