Still in the trace of my tormented thought, 
My ceaseless cares must march on to my death; 
Thy least regard to dearly have i bought, 
Who to my comfort never deign'st a breath. 
Why should'st thou stop thine ears now to my cries, 
Whose eyes were open ready to oppress me? 
Why shut'st thou not the cause whence all did rise, 
Or hear me now, and seek how to redress? 
Injurious Delia, yet I'll love thee still, 
Whilst that I breathe in sorrow of my smart; 
I'll tell the world that I deserv'd but ill, 
And blame myself for to excuse thy heart. 
Then judge who sins the greater of us twain: 
I in my love, or thou in thy disdain.