Xxvii

Reignin my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice! Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate! Yet heavy heart, to make so hard a choice Of such as spoil thy poor afflicted state! For whilst they strive which shall be lord of all, All my poor life by them is trodden down; They all erect their trophies on my fall, And yield me nought that gives them their renown. When back I look, I sigh my freedom past, And wail the state wherein I present stand, And see my fortune ever like to last, Finding me reined with such a heavy hand. What can I do but yield? and yield I do; And serve all three, and yet they spoil me too!