O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
O, how thy worth with manners may I sing
O, how I faint when I of you do write
Farewell, thou art too dear for my possessing.
If thou survive my well-contented day
Who is it that says most, which can say more?
How heavy do I journey on the way
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore.
Those lines that I before have writ do lie
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed.
Tired with all of these, for restful death I cry
No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth
Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth.