Reign in my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice: 
Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate; 
Yet heavy heart to make so hard a choice, 
Of such as spoil thy poor afflicted stated. 
For whilst they strive which shall be Lord of all, 
All my poor life by them is trodden down; 
They all erect their Trophies on my fall, 
And yield me nought that gives them their renown. 
When back I look, I sigh my freedom past, 
And wail the state wherein I present stand, 
And see my fortune ever like to last, 
Finding me reign'd with such a heavy hand. 
What can I do by yield, and yield I do, 
And serve all three, and yet they spoil me too.