Ix

Dear, though from me your gratious looks depart, And of that comfort do myself bereave, Which both I did deserve and did receive, Triumph not over much in this my smart. Nay, rather they which now enjoy thy heart For fear just cause of mourning should conceive, Lest thou inconstant shouldst their trust deceive Which like unto the weather changing art. For in foul weather birds sing often will In hope of fair, and in fair time will cease, For fear fair time should not continue still; So they may mourn which have thy heart possessed For fear of change, and hope of change may ease Their hearts whom grief of change doth now molest.