Since first disdaine beganne to rise
And crye reuenge for spightfull wrong
What erst I praisde I now despise,
And thinke my loue was too too long.
I treade in durt that scornefull pride,
Which in thy lookes I haue discride
Thy beautie is a painted skinne
For fools to see their faces in.
Thine eyes that some as stars esteeme,
From whence themselues, they say take light,
Like to the foolish fire I deeme,
That leades men to their death by night.
Thy words and oathes as light as wind,
And yet far lighter is thy mind:
Thy friendship is a broken reed:
That fales thy friends in greatest need.