These sorrowing sighs, the smokes of mine annoy; 
These tears, which heat of sacred flame distills; 
Are these due tributes that my faith doth pay 
Unto the tyrant whose kindness kills. 
I sacrifice my youth and blooming years 
At her proud feet, and she respects it not; 
My flower untimely's wither'd with my tears 
And winter woes, for spring of youth unfit. 
She thinks a look may recompence my care, 
And so with looks prolongs my long-lookt ease; 
As short that bliss, so is the comfort rare, 
Yet must that bliss my hungry thoughts appease. 
Thus she returns my hopes so fruitless ever; 
Once let her love indeed, or eye me never.