1 I know not what, yet that I feele is much,
It came I know not when, it was not euer,
Yet hurtes I know not how, yet is it such,
As I am pleasd though it be cured neuer,
It is a wound that wasteth still in woe,
And yet I would not, that it were not so.
2 Pleasde with a thought that endeth with a sigh,
Sometimes I smile when teares stand in my eyes,
Yet then and there such sweet contentment lieth,
Both when and where my sweet sower torment lies,
O out alas, I cannot long endure it,
And yet alasse I care not when I cure it.
3 But well away, me thinks I am not shee,
That wonted was these fitsas foule to scorne.
One and the same, euen so I seeme to be,
As lost I liue, yet of my selfe forlorne,
What may this be that thus my mind doth moue,
Alasse I feare, God shield it be not loue.
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