All that behold me on thy beauties shelfe,
To cast my selfe away toss'd with conceit,
Since thou wilt haue no pitie of my state,
Would that I tooke some pitie of my selfe:
For what, say they, though she disdaine to bow,
And takes a pleasure for to see thee sad,
Yet there be many a one that would be glad,
To bost themselves of such a one as thou.
But ah their counsell of small knowledge sauours,
For O poore fooles, they see not what I see,
Thy frownes are sweeter then their smiles can be,
The worst of thy disdaines worth all their fauours:
I rather (deare) of thine one looke to haue,
Then of another all that I would craue.