Xxviii

Alluding to the sparrow pursued by a hawk, that flew into the bosom of Zenocrates

Whilst by thy eyes pursued, my poor heart flew Into the sacred refuge of thy breast; Thy rigour in that sanctuary slew That which thy succ'ring mercy should have blest. No privilege of faith could it protect, Faith being with blood and five years witness signed, Wherein no show gave cause of least suspect, For well thou saw'st my love and how I pined. Yet no mild comfort would thy brow reveal, No lightning looks which falling hopes erect; What boots to laws of succour to appeal? Ladies and tyrants never laws respect. Then there I die from whence my life should come, And by that hand whom such deeds ill become.