Like Hermit poore, in place obscure,
I meane to spend my dayes of endlesse doubt,
To waile such woes as time cannot recure,
Where none but Loue shall finde mee out,
And at my gates dispaire shall linger still,
To let in death when Loue and Fortune will.
words by:
Phillipe Desportes
translated by:
Sir Walter Ralegh