The reason to some secret griefe of mine: But you haue seene me melancholy many a time: Perhaps it is the glowing weather now That makes me seeme so ill at ease to you.

No, No, great Phoebus; this your silence tends To hide your griefe from knowledge of your friends,

I protest I felt no griefe in it.

This and the Image of my living wrongs Is still confronted by me to beget Griefe like my shame, whose length may outlive Time: This Crosse the object of my wounded soule, To which I pray to keepe me from despaire, That ever, as the sight of one throwes up Mountaines of sorrowes on my accursed head, Turning to that, Mercy may checke despaire And bind my hands from wilfull violence.

And then I know there is no griefe on Earth Will touch his hart so much; which I will suffer, To quite his late good pleasure wrought on me, For ile be sworne in motion, and progresse Of his friends suite, I never in my life Wrastled so much with passion or was mov'd To take his firme love in such jelouse part.

Thus I the time with expectation spend, And faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile, That further seemes his terme still to extend, And maketh every minute seem a myle.