h Cookerie,
to drudge & toile wh[=e] pesants take their pleasure,
My noble birth scornes base-borne slauerie,
this easelesse lyfe hath neither end nor measure;
Thou great _Sosipolis_ looke vpon my state,
Be of these nere-hard griefes compassionate.

I feele my long-thought life begin to melt
as doth the snowe gainst midday heate of Sunne,
(Faire loue) thy rigour I haue too much felt,
oh, at the last with crueltie haue done,
If teares thy stonie hart could mollifie,
My brinish springs should floe eternallie.

Sweet loue, behold those pale cheekes washt in woe
that so my teares may as a mirror be,
Thine owne faire shaddowe liuely for to shoe,
and portraite forth thy Angel-hued beautie.
_Narcissus_-lyke then shouldst thou my face kisse,
More honny sweete, then _Venus_ gaue _Adonis_.

Feare not _Gyneura_, faire _Narcissus_ hap;
thy necke, thy breast, thy hand is Lilly-white,
They all are Lillies tane from _Floraes_ lap;
ne're be thou chang'd vnlesse to loue from spite,
Oh that thou wer't but then transformed so,
My Sommers blisse, would change my winters woe.

If thou did'st knowe in what a loathsome place,
I spend my dayes sad and disconsolate,
VVhat foggie Stigian mists hang o re my face,
thou would'st exile this thy conceaued hate;
This Hemisphere is darke, for _Sol_ him shroudes,
My sighes doe so conglomerate the cloudes.

I tolde thee, I, (thou cruell too seuere)
when hate first gan to rise how I was guiltlesse,
Thine eares were deaffe, ye wouldst not harken ere
thy hart was hardned, rockie, pittilesse.
Oh had mine eyes been blind wh[=e] first they view'd thee,
Would God I had been tonglesse wh[=e] I sew'd thee.

But thou wast then as readie to receaue
as I to craue; o great inconstancie,
O twas that fatall houre did so bereaue
my blisfull soule of all tranquillitie:
Thou then didst burne in loue, now froz'd in hate,
Yet pittie mee, sweete mercy ne're comes late.

Looke as the crazen tops of armelesse Trees
or latest down-fall of some aged building,
Doe tell thee of the North-windes boistrous furies,
and how that _Eolus_ lately hath beene stirring;
So in my thin-cheekt face thou well maist see,
The furious storme of thy black crueltie.

But thou inexorable art, ne're to be wone,
though Lyons, Bears, & Tigers haue been tam'd,
Thy wood borne rigour neuer will be done,