She hath grown cold, whose kindness won me to her,
Wherefore is this?
Wishing them more, I find her favours fewer.
What is amiss?

Shall I complain? O, no! true love complains not,
Being denied.
Shall I disdain? O, no! true love disdains not,
Only false pride.

If, when she liked, to love my friendship flowered,
With too fond haste,
Say why should hers, to scorn injurious soured,
As sudden waste?

Shall I less love her for her heart's denial?
Nay, year by year,
Since she is worthy, thou shalt find thy trial
Daily more dear;

Till, it may be, the faithful spirit in thee,
Fresh from love's fast,
Out of her eyes his look of looks shall win thee,
Lover, at last.