[XIII. If silent, then grief torments mee]
If silent, then grief torments
mee, If I speake, your patience moueth,
Hating him that loueth, Hating him that loueth,
your patience moueth. But whē sweet hope appereth, My coūtenaunce
it cheareth, And kneeles in humble wise for pittie pleading: That
these my lines so pensiue, May no way seeme offensiue,
But rather work my ioye, by your sweet reading. But rather work my
ioye, by your sweet reading. But rather work my
ioye, by your sweet reading, by your sweet reading.
