In vayne, myne eyes yow Laboure to amend,
With flowing Teares youre fainte of Hasty sighte?
Synce to my harte her shape yo w so did sende,
That her I see, though yo w did lose youre sighte.
In vayne my harte, now yo w w th sighte are burnde
With sighes yow seeke to coole youre whott desyer;
Synce sighes into myne inwarde furnace turnde,
For Bellowes serve to kindell more the fyer.
Reason, in vayne, now yo w have lost my harte,
My heade yo w seeke, as to youre strongest forte:
Synce there myne eyes have playde so false a parte,
That to youre strengthe youre foes have suche resorte?
And since in vayne (I fynde) were all my stryfe,
To this straunge deathe I vaynely yeelde my lyfe.