of many a future feare,
          Which except the silent night,
          None but onely thou shalt heare;
          My sad hurt it shall releeue,
          When my thoughts I shall disclose,
          For thou canst not chuse but greeue,
          When I shall recount my woes;
          There is nothing to that friend,
          To whose close vncranied brest, 70
          We our secret thoughts may send,
          And there safely let it rest: 
          And thy faithfull counsell may,
          My distressed case assist,
          Sad affliction else may sway
          Me a woman as it list: 
          Hither I would haue thee haste,
          Yet would gladly haue thee stay,
          When those dangers I forecast,
          That may meet thee by the way, 80
          Doe as thou shalt thinke it best,
          Let thy knowledge be thy guide,
          Liue thou in my constant breast,
          Whatsoeuer shall betide. 
          He her Letter hauing red,
          Puts it in his Scrip againe,
          Looking like a man halfe dead,
          By her kindenesse strangely slaine;
          And as one who inly knew,
          Her distressed present state, 90
          And to her had still been true,
          Thus doth with himselfe debate. 
          I will not thy face admire,
          Admirable though it bee,
          Nor thine eyes whose subtile fire
          So much wonder winne in me: 
          But my maruell shall be now,
          (And of long it hath bene so)
          Of all Woman kind that thou
          Wert ordain’d to taste of woe; 100
          To a Beauty so diuine,
          Paradise in little done,
          O that Fortune should assigne,
          Ought but what thou well mightst shun,
          But my counsailes such must bee,
          (Though as yet I them conceale)
          By their deadly wound in me,
          They thy hurt must onely heale,
          Could I giue what thou do’st craue
          To that passe thy state is growne, 110
          I thereby thy life may saue,
          But am sure to loose mine owne,
          To that ioy thou do’st conceiue,
          Through my heart, the way doth lye,
          Which in two for thee must claue
          Least that thou shouldst goe awry. 
          Thus my death must be a toy,
          Which my pensiue breast must couer;
          Thy beloued to enioy,
          Must be taught thee by thy Louer. 120
          Hard the Choise I haue to chuse,
          To my selfe if friend I be,
          I must my SIRENA loose,
          If not so, shee looseth me. 
          Thus