What dame disconsolate
May so lament as I,
That vainly sigh, to Love still dedicate?
He that the heaven and every orb doth move
Formed me for His delight
Fair, debonair and gracious, apt for love;
That here on earth each soaring spirit might Have foretaste how, above,
That beauty shews that standeth in His sight. Ah! but dull wit and slight,
For that it judgeth ill,
Liketh me not, nay, doth me vilely rate.
