When my abodes prefixed time is spent,
My cruell fayre streight bids me wend my way: 
But then from heaven most hideous stormes are sent,
As willing me against her will to stay. 
Whom then shall I—­or heaven, or her—­obay? 
The heavens know best what is the best for me: 
But as she will, whose will my life doth sway,
My lower heaven, so it perforce must be. 
But ye high hevens, that all this sorowe see,
Sith all your tempests cannot hold me backe,
Aswage your storms, or else both you and she
Will both together me too sorely wrack. 
  Enough it is for one man to sustaine
  The stormes which she alone on me doth raine.

XLVII.

Trust not the treason of those smyling lookes,
Untill ye have their guylefull traynes well tryde;
For they are lyke but unto golden hookes,
That from the foolish fish theyr bayts do hyde: 
So she with flattring smyles weake harts doth guyde
Unto her love, and tempte to theyr decay;
Whome, being caught, she kills with cruell pryde,
And feeds at pleasure on the wretched pray. 
Yet even whylst her bloody hands them slay,
Her eyes looke lovely, and upon them smyle,
That they take pleasure in their cruell play,
And, dying, doe themselves of payne beguyle. 
  O mighty charm! which makes men love theyr bane,
  And thinck they dy with pleasure, live with payne.

XLVIII.

Innocent paper! whom too cruell hand
Did make the matter to avenge her yre,
And ere she could thy cause well understand,
Did sacrifize unto the greedy fyre,
Well worthy thou to have found better hyre
Then so bad end, for hereticks ordayned;
Yet heresy nor treason didst conspire,
But plead thy maisters cause, unjustly payned: 
Whom she, all carelesse of his grief, constrayned
To utter forth the anguish of his hart,
And would not heare, when he to her complayned
The piteous passion of his dying smart. 
  Yet live for ever, though against her will,
  And speake her good, though she requite it ill.

XLIX.

Fayre Cruell! why are ye so fierce and cruell? 
Is it because your eyes have powre to kill? 
Then know that mercy is the Mighties iewell,
And greater glory think to save then spill. 
But if it be your pleasure and proud will
To shew the powre of your imperious eyes,
Then not on him that never thought you ill,
But bend your force against your enemyes. 
Let them feel the utmost of your crueltyes,
And kill with looks, as cockatrices do: 
But him that at your footstoole humbled lies,
With mercifull regard give mercy to. 
  Such mercy shall you make admyr’d to be;
  So shall you live, by giving life to me.

L.