The bitter sweet that strains my yielded heart,
The careless count that doth the same embrace,
The doubtful hope, to reap my due desert,
The pensive path, that guides my restless race:
Are at such war, within my wounded breast,
As doth bereave my joy, and eke my rest.

My greedy will, which seeks the golden gain,
My luckless lot doth always take in worth
My matched mind, that dreads my suits in vain,
My piteous plaint doth help for to set forth,
So that betwixt two waves of raging seas
I drive my days, in trouble and disease.

My woeful eyes do take their chief delight,
To feed their fill, upon their pleasant maze:
My hidden harms, that grow in me by night,
With pining pains do drive me from thy gaze:
And to my hap, I reap none other hire,
But burn myself, and I do blow the fire.