Whereat erewhile I wept, I laugh,
That which I feared, I now despise
My victor once, my vassall is,
My fo constrainde, my weale supplie.
Thus doo I triumph on my fo,
I weepe at weale, I laugh at wo.
My care is cur'd, yet hath none ende,
Not that I want, but that I haue,
My chance was change, yet still I stay,
I would haue lesse, and yet I craue:
Ay me poore wretch that thus doe liue,
Constraind to take, yet forst to giue.
Shee whose delights are signes of Death,
Who when she smiles, begins to lower.
Constant in this that still she change,
Hir sweetest giftes tyme proues but sowre.
I liue in care, crost with hir guile,
Through hir I weepe, at hir I smile.