These plaintive verses, the Posts of my desire, 
Which haste for succour to her slow regard: 
Bear not report of any slender fire, 
Forging a grief to win a fame's reward. 
Nor are my passions limn'd for outward hue, 
For that no colors can depaint my sorrows; 
Delia herself and all the world may view 
Best in my face, how cares hath till'd deep forrows. 
No Bays I seek to deck my mourning brow, 
O clear-eyed Rector of the holy Hill; 
My humble accents crave the Olive bough, 
Of her mild pity and relenting will. 
These lines I use t'unburden mine own heart; 
My love affects no fame nor 'steems of art.