I wot not which to chalenge for my death,
Of those thy beauties that my ruine seekes,
The pure white fingers or the daintie cheekes,
The golden tresses, or the nectard breath:
Ah they be all too guiltie of my fall,
All wounded me though I their glorie rais'd;
Although I graunt they need not to be prais'd,
It may suffise they be Auroraes all:
Yet for all this, O most ungratefull woman,
Thou shalt not scape the scourge of iust disdaine;
I gaue thee gifts thou shouldst haue giuen againe,
It's shame to be in thy inferiors common:
I gaue all what I held most deare to thee,
Yet to this houre thou neuer guerdon'd me.