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Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.


The carcase of a beauty spent and done,
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven's fell rage
Some beauty peeped through lattice of seared age.


Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plait,
Proclaimed in her a careless hand of pride,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside,
Some in her thread en fillet still did bide

"But, woe is me! too early I attended,
A youthful suit -it was to gain my grace,
O, one by nature's outwards so commended,
That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face.

Love lacked a dwelling and made him her place,
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new-lodged and newly deified.