Winged with sad woes, why doth fair zephyr blow
      Upon my face, the map of discontent? 
      Is it to have the weeds of sorrow grow
      So long and thick, that they will ne’er be spent? 
    No, fondling, no!  It is to cool the fire
      Which hot desire within thy breast hath made. 
      Check him but once and he will soon retire. 
      O but he sorrows brought which cannot fade! 
    The sorrows that he brought, he took from thee,
      Which fair Fidessa span and thou must wear! 
      Yet hath she nothing done of cruelty,
      But for her sake to try what thou wilt bear. 
    Come, sorrows, come!  You are to me assigned;
    I’ll bear you all, it is Fidessa’s mind.

    XII

    O if my heavenly sighs must prove annoy,
      Which are the sweetest music to my heart,
      Let it suffice I count them as my joy,
      Sweet bitter joy and pleasant painful smart! 
    For when my breast is clogged with thousand cares,
      That my poor loaded heart is like to break,
      Then every sigh doth question how it fares,
      Seeming to add their strength, which makes me weak;
    Yet for they friendly are, I entertain them,
      And they too well are pleased with their host. 
      But I, had not Fidessa been, ere now had slain them;
      It’s for her cause they live, in her they boast;
    They promise help but when they see her face;
    They fainting yield, and dare not sue for grace.

    XIII

    Compare me to the child that plays with fire,
      Or to the fly that dieth in the flame,
      Or to the foolish boy that did aspire
      To touch the glory of high heaven’s frame;
    Compare me to Leander struggling in the waves,
      Not able to attain his safety’s shore,
      Or to the sick that do expect their graves,
      Or to the captive crying evermore;
    Compare me to the weeping wounded hart,
      Moaning with tears the period of his life,
      Or to the boar that will not feel the smart,
      When he is stricken with the butcher’s knife;
    No man to these can fitly me compare;
    These live to die, I die to live in care.

    XIV

    When silent sleep had closed up mine eyes,
      My watchful mind did then begin to muse;
      A thousand pleasing thoughts did then arise,
      That sought by slights their master to abuse. 
    I saw, O heavenly sight!  Fidessa’s face,
      And fair dame nature blushing to behold it;
      Now did she laugh, now wink, now smile apace,
      She took me by the hand and fast did hold it;
    Sweetly her sweet body did she lay down by me;
      “Alas, poor wretch,” quoth she, “great is thy sorrow;
      But thou shall comfort find if thou wilt try me. 
      I hope, sir boy, you’ll tell me news to-morrow.” 
    With that, away she went, and I did wake withal;
    When ah! my honey thoughts were turned to gall.