[IX. Sweet Loue when hope was flowring]
Sweet Loue when hope was flowring
Sweet Loue when hope was flowring,
with fruites of recompence for my deseruing, for
my deseruing, rest was the price of all my faithfull seruing Oh spiteful
death accursed, Oh lyfe most cruell, the first by wrong doth paie
me, and all my hope hath turned to lamenting, the last against my will hee
doth detaine me, fayne would I find my Iuell, but death to spite me more, yet
with a mild relenting, me thinkes within my hart her place she
holdeth, & what my torment is plainely beholdeth, & what my tormēt
is plainly beholdeth, plainely beholdeth, plainly beholdeth.