Envious wits what hath beene mine offence,
That with such poisoned eare my wits you marke,
That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,
As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?
Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:
Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparke
Of comfort dare come to this dungeon darke
Where rigorous exile lockes up al my sense:
But if I by a happie window passe,
If I but Starres uppon mine Armour beare,
Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse)
Your morals note straight my hid meaning there,
From out my ribs a whirlewind proves that I
Doe Stella love. Fooles, who doth it denie?