Whil'st carelesse swimming in thy beauties seas,
I wondring was at that bewitching grace,
Thou painted pitie on a cruell face,
And angled so my iudgement by mine eyes:
But now begun to triumph in my scorne,
When I cannot retire my steps againe,
Thou arm'st thine eyes with enuy and disdaine,
To murther my abortiue hopes half borne:
Whil'st like to end this long continued strife,
My palenesse shewes I perish in despaire;
Thou loth to lose one that esteemes thee faire,
With some sweete word or looke prolongst my life:
And so each day in doubt redact'st my state,
Deare do not so, once either loue or hate.