She is the Artique starre, the gratious Goddesse to, She hath the might to make and marre, to helpe or els vndo, Both death and life she hath at call, My warre, my peace, my ruine and all. She makes me liue in woe, and guides my sighs and lookes, She holds my fredome by a lace, as fish is held with hookes, Thus by despayre in this conceite, I swallow vp both hooke and baite. And in the deserts loe I liue, among the sauage kinde, And spend my time in wofull sighs, rays’d vp by care of minde, All hopelesse to in paynes I pyne, And ioyes for euer doe resigne. I dread but Charon’s boat if she no mercy giue, In darknesse then my soule shall dwell, in Pluto’s raygne to liue, But I beleue she hath no care, On him that caught is in hir snare. If she release my woe, a thousand thankes therefore, I shall hir giue, and make the world to honor hir the more, The Gods in Skies will prayse the same, And recorde beare of hir good name. O happy is that life, that after torment straunge, And earthly sorows on this mould, for better life shal chaunge And liue amongs the Gods on high, Where loue and Louers neuer die. O lyfe that here I leade, I freely giue thee now, Vnto the fayre where ere she rests, and loke thou shew hir how I linger forth my yeares and dayes, To win of hir a crowne of prayse. And thou my pleasaunt Lute, cease not my songs to sound, And shew the torments of my minde, that I through loue haue found, And alwayes tell my Mistresse still, Hir worthy vertues rules my will. The Foster Louer.