And doe I see some cause a hope to feede
Or doth the tedious burthen of long woe
In weakned mindes, quick apprehension breede
Of every Image which may comfort showe.
I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deede,
Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slowe.
My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my neede,
Desier, still on stilts of feare doth goe.
And yet amids all feares, a hope there is
Stolne to my hart: since last faire night (nay day)
Stellas eyes sent to me the beames of blisse,
Looking on mee, while I looke other way:
But when mine eyes backe to their heaven did move:
They fled with blush, which guiltie seem’d of love: