Those amber locks are those same nets, my dear, 
Wherewith my liberty thou didst surprise; 
Love was the flame that fired me so near; 
The dart transpiercing were those crystal eyes. 
Stong is the net, and fervent is the flame; 
Deep is the wound, my sighs do well report; 
Yet do I love, adore, and praise the same, 
That holds, that burns, that wounds me in this sort. 
And list not seek to break, to quench, to heal, 
The bond, the flame, the wound which fest'reth so; 
By knife, by liquor, or by salve to deal; 
So much I please to perish in my woe. 
Yet lest long travails be above my strength, 
Good Delia loose, quench, heal me now at length.