Read in my face a volume of despairs, 
The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe, 
Drawn with my blood and printed with my cares 
Wrought by her hand, that I have honor'd so. 
Who, whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack, 
Looking aloft from turret of her pride; 
There my soul's tyrant joys her in the sack 
Of her own seat, whereof I made her guide. 
There do these smokes that from affliction rise, 
Serve as an incense to a cruel Dame; 
A sacrifice thrice grateful to her eyes, 
Because their power serve to exact the same. 
Thus ruins she, to satisfy her will, 
The Temple where her name was honor'd still.