It is not that I love you lesse,
then when before your feet I lay,
but to prevent the sad encrease 
of hopeless Love I keep away:
In vain alas for ev'ry thing that I have
known belong to you,
your form dares to my fancy bring,
and make my old wounds bleed anew.

But I have vow'd, and never must 
your banish'd fervant trouble you
for if he break you may distrust,
the vow he made to love you too.

Who in the Spring from the new Sun
Already hath a Feaver got;
Too late begins those shafts to shun
Which Phabus through his veines hath shot,
Too late he would the pains aswage,
And to thick shadows does retire,
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted bloud the fire.