XXXVI.
[Each thought I thinke is frend to her I Loue]
Here the Author misliketh of his wearisome estate in loue, for
that he neither obtaineth any fauour at the handes of his
Mistres for his good thought or speach, nor by his louinge
lookes, or presents, nor by his humilitie in writing, or long
sufferance in seruitude. And herehence he blameth her ouerhardnes
of heart, and the froward constellation of his
owne natiuitie: and therewithall abandoning all further
desire of life, hath in request vntimely death, as the only end
of his infelicitie.
Each
thought I thinke is frend to her I Loue;
I still in speach vse course of gentle wordes;
My louing lookes are such as ought to moue;
My giftes as greate as mine estate affordes;
My letters tell in what a case I stand,
Though full of blots through fault of trembling hand;
I dewly daunce attendance as I may,
With hope to please, and feare to make offence;
All sou'rainite to her I graunt for aye;
And where she hurtes yet make I no defence;
Sobbes are the songe, wherein I take delight;
And shew'rs of teares do dayly dimme my sight.
And yet all this doth make but small auaile,
Her heart is hard, and neuer will relent,
No tune, no place, no prayer can preuaile,
The heau'ns them selues disfauour mine intent:
Why should I then desire a longer life,
To weaue therein a webbe of endlesse strife?
