The constant Lover lamenteth

SINCE fortune’s wrath envieth the wealth

Wherein I reigned, by the sight

Of that, that fed mine eyes by stealth

With sour, sweet, dread, and delight;

Let not my grief move you to moan,

For I will weep and wail alone.

Spite drave me into Boreas’ reign,

Where hoary frosts the fruits do bite,

When hills were spread, and every plain

With stormy winter’s mantle white;

And yet, my dear, such was my heat,

When others froze, then did I sweat.

And now, though on the sun I drive,

Whose fervent flame all things decays;

His beams in brightness may not strive

With light of your sweet golden rays;

Nor from my breast his heat remove

The frozen thoughts, graven by Love.

Ne may the waves of the salt flood

Quench that your beauty set on fire;

For though mine eyes forbear the food,

That did relieve the hot desire;

Such as I was, such will I be;

Your own; what would ye more of me?