play vppon the Lute, and desired him to gieue awake vnto hys Lady, that then for iealousie was harkeninge at hir window, both of the sounde of the Instrument, and the Ditty of hir amorous Knight, where the Gentleman song thys Sonet. The death with trenchant dart, doth brede in brest sutch il, As I cannot forget the smart, that thereby riseth stil. Yet neerthelesse I am, the ill it selfe in deede, That death with daily dolours deepe, within my breast doth breede. I am my Mistresse thrall, and yet I doe not kno, If she beare me good will at all, or if she loue or no. My wound is made so large, with bitter wo in brest, That still my heart prepares a place to lodge a carefull guest. O dame that hath my lyfe and death at thy desire. Come ease my mind, wher fancies flames doth burne like Ethna fire, For wanting thee my life is death and doleful cheere, And finding fauor in thy sight, my dayes are happy heere. Then he began to sigh so terribly, as if already she had geuen sentence, and difinitiue Iudgement of his farewell, and disputed with his fellow in sutch sort, and wyth Opinion so assured of hys contempt, as if he had bene in loue with some one of the Infants of Spayne: for which cause he began very pitifully to sing these verses. That God that made my soule, and knows what I haue felt, Who causeth sighes and sorows oft, the sely soule to swelt, Doth see my torments now, and what I suffer still, And vnderstands I tast mo griefs, than I can shew by skill. Hee doth consent I wot, to my ill hap and woe, And hath accorded with the dame that is my pleasaunt foe, To make my boyling brest abound in bitter blisse, And so bereue me of my rest, when heart his hope shall misse. O what are not the songs, and sighs that louers haue, When night and day with sweete desires, they draw vnto their graue, Their grief by frendship growes, where ruth nor pity raynes, And so like snow against the Sun, they melt away with pains. My dayes must finish so, my destny hath it set, And as the candle out I goe, before hir grace I get. Before my sute be heard, my seruice throughly knowne, I shalbe layd in Toumbe ful low, so colde as Marble stone. To thee fayre Dame I cry, that makes my senses arre, And plantest peace within my brest and then makes sodain war: Yet at thy pleasure still, thou must my sowre make sweete, In graunting me the fauour due, for faythfull Louers meete. Which fauor geue me now, and to thy Noble mynde, I doe remayne a Galley slaue, as thou by proofe shall finde. And so thou shalt release my heart from cruell bandes, And haue his fredome at thy wil that yelds into thy handes. So rendring all to thee, the gods may ioyne vs both Within one lawe and league of loue, through force of constant troth. Then shalt thou mistresse be, of lyfe, of Limme and all, My goods, my golde, and honour, loe! shall so be at thy call.