If I fail, my love may her subdue
If I fail second, my verse is a second writ
I thought; although her glories, past, sublime 'adieu'
And well, my fancy her sentiments deceit.
Now the rosy-buds are seeming decayed
Or, immaturelly the sun, under veil
Is unwilling to make 'em on comfortable bed-
So far me pretty Muse tell;
So I do my pen over-do upon verse
And unsunk by Lethe, my ink swim
And dear she unheartedly does urge
To dream within a deceitful whim,
For, 'tis she, dear she maketh love
And farewell to her, is deceit above.