I might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might,
And then would not, nor could not see my blisse:
Till now, wrapt in a most infernall Night,
I finde, how heavenly day (wretch) did I misse;
Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right.
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,
No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight,
Nor fortune of thy fortune Author is;
But to my selfe, my selfe did give the blow,
While too much wit forsooth so trubled me,
That I respects for both our sakes must show,
And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see,
How faire a day was neere, (รด punisht eyes)
That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.