Of doubtful Love

AVISING the bright beams of those fair eyes,

Where he abides that mine oft moistens and washeth;

The wearied mind straight from the heart departeth,

To rest within his worldly paradise,

And bitter finds the sweet, under his guise.

What webs there he hath wrought, well he perceiveth:

Whereby then with himself on love he plaineth,

That spurs with fire, and bridleth eke with ice.

In such extremity thus is he brought:

Frozen now cold, and now he stands in flame:

’Twixt woe and wealth, betwixt earnest and game,

With seldom glad, and many a diverse thought,

In sore repentance of his hardiness,

Of such a root, lo, cometh fruit fruitless.