Go, wailing verse, the issue of thy sire,
   Begot on sighs which vent from my torn heart.
Tell thou thy parent’s never quenched desire,
   Tell of his griefs and of his endless smart,
Tell of his passions and his sad laments 
How still he sues hard, she yet ne’re relents.

Deep sobs, the silent orators of Love, 
   Sad sighs, the muttering echoes of my pain, 
Heart-renting groans, the agent which would move, 
   Compassion with that cheek bedewèd rain. 
Rain which doth trickle from my watery eyes,
Hoping at length she’ll hear my doleful cries. 

But, Oh! would that sweet fair had been the butt,
   For Cupid to have aimed at with his shafts, 
Then had not these my passions bolted out, 
   Blazing my follies unto wise men’s hates.
Then could not I, deciphering my harms,
Sought to have gained that fair with my rude charms.

But why wish I to Cupid so much good, 
   When he hath broke his shafts and silver bow, 
And finds a flame enkindled in my blood, 
   Which neither ice can quench nor mountain snow?
And sure no marvel if he conquer men, 
When gods so fair a saint have never seen.

Her eyes like globes contain a thousand orbs, 
   Her ruby lips, her pearled teeth in number, 
With that sweet tongue such harmony affords, 
   As with applause makes all the world to wonder,
To wonder at her only and no other,
Since Cupid did mistake her for his mother.