University of Virginia Library


180

XXXIX.

O cruell love, why dothe thow sore assayle
my humbled harte with torments overtorne?
quhat triumphs dost thow mereit of avayle
in thralling me who is so far forlorne?
and to quhat end is shee as yet forborne
who, cairles of thy flams, thy bowe and darte,
in her great pryde doeth all thy pouer scorne,
and dois remark my flams with frosen harte?
now through my loss I am maid more expert,
and now dois see to be bot taels and dremes
that thow hes Mars and Iove him self subvert,
with phebus bright in his resplendant beames,
sen that my dame, the glorye of myne eyes,
dispyseth the, and dois disdayne my cryes.