Oh that I could make her whom I loue best,
Finde in a face with miserie wrinckled,
Finde in an hart, with sighes ouer-ill-pynde,
Her cruell hatred!
Oh that I could make her whom I loue best,
Finde by my teares, what maladie vexeth,
Finde by my throbbes, how forceably loues darte
Woundes my decayde hart!
Oh that I could make her, whom I loue best
Tell with a sweet smile, that she respecteth
All my lamentinges, and that in her hart
Mourne fully she rues!
For my desartes, were worthy the fauours
Of such a fayre Nymphe, might she be fairer
Oh then a firme faith, what may be richer!
Then to my loue yeeld.
Then will I leaue these teares to the wast rockes,
Then will I leaue these sighes to the rough windes,
Oh that I could make her, whom I loue best
Pittie my long smart!