The very euill that causeth mine anoy The matter is that breedes to me my ioy, Which doth my wofull heart full sore displease, And yet my hap and hard yll lucke doth ease. I hope one day when I am franke and free, To make thee do the thing that pleaseth mee, Whereby gayne I shall, some pleasaunt gladnesse, To supply mine vndeserued sadnesse, The like whereof no mortall Dame can giue To louing man that heere on earth doth lyue. This great good turne which I on thee pretende, Of my Conceites the full desired ende, Proceedes from thee (O cruell mystresse myne) Whose froward heart hath made mee to resigne The full effect of all my liberty, (To please and ease thy fonde fickle fansy) My vse of speache in silence to remayne: To euery wight a double hellishe payne. Whose fayth hadst thou not wickedly abusde No stresse of payne for thee had bene refusde, Who was to thee a trusty seruaunt sure, And for thy sake all daungers would endure. For which thou hast defaced thy good name, And thereunto procurde eternall shame. ¶ That roaring tempest huge which thou hast made me felt, The raging stormes whereof, well neere my heart hath swelt By paineful pangs: whose waltering waues by troubled Skies, And thousand blasts of winde that in those Seas do ryse Do promise shipwracke sure of that thy sayling Barke, When after weather cleare doth rise some Tempest darke. For eyther I or thou which art of Tyger’s kinde, In that great raging gulfe some daunger sure shalt finde, Of that thy nature rude the dest’nies en’mies bee, And thy great ouerthrow full well they do foresee. The heauens vnto my estate no doubt great friendship shoe, And do seeke wayes to ende, and finish all my woe. This penaunce which I beare by yelding to thy hest Great store of ioyes shall heape, and bring my mynde to rest. And when I am at ease amids my pleasaunt happes, Then shall I see thee fall, and snarld in Fortune’s trappes. Then shall I see thee ban and cursse the wicked time, Wherin thou madest me gulp such draught of poysoned wine. Of which thy mortall cup, I am the offerd wight, A vowed sacrifice to that thy cruell spight. Wherefore my hoping heart doth hope to see the day, That thou for silence now to me shalt be the pray. ¶ O Blessed God most iust, whose worthy laude and prayse With vttered speach in Skies a loft I dare not once to rayse, And may not well pronounce and speak what suffrance I sustain, Ne yet what death I do indure, whiles I in lyfe remayne, Take vengeance on that traytresse rude, afflict hir corps with woe Thy holy arme redresse hir fault, that she no more do soe: My reason hath not so farre strayed but I may hope and trust To see hir for hir wickednes, be whipt with plague most iust. In the meane while great heauines my sence and soule doth bite, And shaking feuer vex my corps for griefe of hir despite. My mynde now set at liberty from thee (O cruell Dame)