V

Had she not been so excellently fair, My muse had never mourned in lines of woe; But I did too inestimable weigh her, And that's the cause I now lament me so. Yet not for her contempt do I complain me: Complaints may ease the mind, but that is all; Therefore though she too constantly disdain me, I can but sigh and grieve, and so I shall. Yet grieve I not because I must grieve ever; And yet, alas, waste tears away, in vain; I am resolved truly to persever, Though she persisteth in her old disdain. But that which grieves me most is that I see Those which most fair, the most unkindest be.