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Iohn Dowland

XVII. I must complaine, yet do enioy.

      I must complaine, yet do enioy my loue,
      She is too faire, too rich in beauties parts.
      Thence is my griefe for nature while she stroue
      With all her graces and deuinest artes.
      To forme her too too beautifull of hue,
      She had no leisure left to make her true.

      Should I agrieu'd then wish she were lesse faire,
      That were repugnant to my owne desires,
      She is admir'd, new suters still repaire,
      That kindles dayly loues forgetfull fires,
      Rest iealous thoughts, and thus resolue at last,
      She hath more beautie then becomes the chast.