University of Virginia Library

A prettie Poeme.

A Trembling hand, but not a traitor's heart
Writing for feare and fearing for to write,
Loath to reueale, yet willing to impart,
Such secret thoughts as fit not euery sight
Must leaue to you in sweet conceit to know them,
For I haue sworne that I will neuer shew them.
I know not what, but sure the griefe is greene,
I know not when, but once it was not euer,
I know not how, but secretly vnseene,
And make no care if it be ended neuer,
And yet a wound that wastes me all with woe,
And yet would not that it were not so:
But oh sweete God, what doe these humors moue?
Alas, I feare, God shield it be not loue.
Finis.