Xxxi

The star of my mishap imposed this pain To spend the April of my years in grief; Finding my fortune ever in the wane, With still fresh cares, supplied with no relief. Yet thee I blame not, though for thee 'tis done; But these weak wings presuming to aspire, Which now are melted by thine eyes' bright sun That makes me fall from off my high desire; And in my fall I cry for help with speed, No pitying eye looks back upon my fears; No succour find I now when most I need: My heats must drown in th'ocean of my tears, Which still must bear the title of my wrong, Caused by those cruel beams that were so strong.