Unquiet thought, whom at the first I bred
Of th'inward bale of my love pined hart:
And sithens have with sighes and sorrowes fed
Till greater then my wombe thou woxen art:
Breake forth at length out of the inner part
In which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood:
And seeke some succour both to ease my smart
And also to sustayne thy selfe with food
But if in presence of that fayrest proud
Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet:
And with meeke humblesse and afflicted mood
Pardon for thee, and gracе for me intreat
Which if she graunt, thеn live and my love cherish
If not, die soone, and I with thee will perish