These sorrowing sighes, the smoakes of mine annoy,
These teares, which heate of sacred flame distils,
Are those due tributes that my faith doth pay
Unto the Tyrant whose unkindnes kils.
I sacrifize my youth and blooming yeeres
At her proude feete, and she respects not it:
My flowre untimely's withred with my teares,
And Winter woes, for spring of youth unfit.
She thinkes a looke may recompence my care,
And so with lookes prolongs my long-lookt ease:
As short that blisse, so is the comfort rare,
Yet must that blisse my hungry thoughts appease
Thus she returnes my hopes so fruitlesse ever:
Once let her love indeede, or eye me never.