Whil'st nothing could my fancies course controule,
T'haue matchlesse beauties match'd with matchles loue,
And from thy mind all rigor to remoue,
I sacrific'd th'affections of my soule:
And Hercules had neuer greater paines,
With dangerous toiles his step-dames wrath t'asswage,
Then I, while as I did my thoughts engage,
With my deserts t'oreballance thy disdaines:
Yet all my merits could not moue thy mind,
But furnish'd trophees for t'adorne thy pride,
That in the fornace of those troubles tride
The temper of my loue, whose flame I find
Fin'd and refin'd too oft, but faintles flashes,
And must within short time fall downe in ashes.