Alas, have I not paine enough my friend,
Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,
Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;
While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,
But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,
To greeve me worse in saying, that desier
Doth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mier
Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.
If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,
Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;
If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede,
A loathing of all lose unchastitie;
Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.