I sigh as sure to weare the fruit of the Willow tree, I sigh as sure to lose my sute, for it may not bee. I sigh as one that loues in vaine, I sigh as one that liues in paine, Very sorie, very weary of my miserie. 2 I hate my thoughts which like the Flie, flutter in the flame, I hate my teares which drop, and dry, quench and frid the same : I hate the hart which frozen burnes, I hate the hart which chosen turnes, Too and from mee, making of mee nothing but a game. 3 My thoughts are fuell to desire, which my hart doth moue, My teares are oyle to feed the fire, smart whereof I proue : She laughes at sighes that come from mee, I sigh at laughes in her so free, Who doth glory, in the storie of my sorie loue. 4 Her louely lookes, and louelesse mind doe not well agree, Her quick conceipt, and iudgement blind, as ill suted bee : Her forward wit, and froward hart, that like to knit, this glad to part, Makes so prettie, and so wittie, not to pittie mee. 5 The more I seeke, the lesse I find what to trust vnto, The more I hold, the lesse I bind, she doth still vndoe : I weaue the web of idle loue, which endles will, and frutles proue, If the pleasure for the measure of my treasure goe.
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer