Alas faire face why doth that smoothed brow: 
Those speaking eies ros'd lips, and blushing beautie. 
All in them selves confirme a scorn full vow:
To spoile my hopes of love, my love of dutie. 
The time hath bin, when I was better grast: 
I now the same, and yet that time is past. 

Is it because that thou art onely faire,
Oh no such gracefull lookes banish disdaine,
How then, to feede my passions with dispaire,
Feede on sweet love, so I be loved againe.
Well may thy publike scorne, and outward pride,
Inward affections, and best likings hide.

Breath but a gentle aire, and I shall live,
Smyle in a clowde, so shall my hopes renue,
One kind regard, and second seing give,
One rising Morne, and my blacke woes subdue.
If not, yet looke upon the friendly Sunne,
That by his beames, my beames to thine may runne.