XVII.
[That hart wherein all sorrowes doth abound]
[1]
That hart wherein all sorrowes doth abound,
Lies in this breast, and cries alowd for death,
O blame not her when I am vnder ground,
That scorning wisht, t'outliue my panting breath,
O doe not her despise,
But let my death suffice,
To make all young men wise.
2
My louing hopes prolongd my lothed life,
Till that my life grew lothsome to my lou'd,
Then death and I were at no longer strife:
And I was glad my death her wish approu'd.
O let not her be shent,
Yet let my president,
Make womans harts relent.
