Amour 40

    O thou vnkindest fayre! most fayrest shee,
    In thine eyes tryumph murthering my poore hart,
    Now doe I sweare by heauens, before we part,
    My halfe-slaine hart shall take reuenge on thee. 
    Thy mother dyd her lyfe to death resigne,
    And thou an Angell art, and from aboue;
    Thy father was a man, that will I proue,
    Yet thou a Goddesse art, and so diuine. 
    And thus, if thou be not of humaine kinde,
    A Bastard on both sides needes must thou be;
    Our Lawes allow no land to basterdy: 
    By natures Lawes we thee a bastard finde. 
      Then hence to heauen, vnkind, for thy childs part: 
      Goe bastard goe, for sure of thence thou art.

Amour 41

    Rare of-spring of my thoughts, my dearest Loue,
    Begot by fancy on sweet hope exhortiue,
    In whom all purenes with perfection stroue,
    Hurt in the Embryon makes my ioyes abhortiue. 
    And you, my sighes, Symtomas of my woe,
    The dolefull Anthems of my endelesse care,
    Lyke idle Ecchoes euer answering; so,
    The mournfull accents of my loues dispayre. 
    And thou, Conceite, the shadow of my blisse,
    Declyning with the setting of my sunne,
    Springing with that, and fading straight with this,
    Now hast thou end, and now thou wast begun: 
      Now was thy pryme, and loe! is now thy waine;
      Now wast thou borne, now in thy cradle slayne.

Amour 42

    Plac’d in the forlorne hope of all dispayre
    Against the Forte where Beauties Army lies,
    Assayld with death, yet armed with gastly feare,
    Loe! thus my loue, my lyfe, my fortune tryes. 
    Wounded with Arrowes from thy lightning eyes,
    My tongue in payne my harts counsels bewraying,
    My rebell thought for me in Ambushe lyes,
    To my lyues foe her Chieftaine still betraying. 
    Record my loue in Ocean waues (vnkind)
    Cast my desarts into the open ayre,
    Commit my words vnto the fleeting wind,
    Cancell my name, and blot it with dispayre;
      So shall I bee as I had neuer beene,
      Nor my disgraces to the world be seene.

Amour 43

    Why doe I speake of ioy, or write of loue,
    When my hart is the very Den of horror,
    And in my soule the paynes of hell I proue,
    With all his torments and infernall terror? 
    Myne eyes want teares thus to bewayle my woe,
    My brayne is dry with weeping all too long;
    My sighes be spent with griefe and sighing so,
    And I want words for to expresse my wrong. 
    But still, distracted in loues lunacy,
    And Bedlam like thus rauing in my griefe,
    Now rayle vpon her hayre, now on her eye,
    Now call her Goddesse, then I call her thiefe;
      Now I deny her, then I doe confesse her,
      Now I doe curse her, then againe I blesse her.