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A Sicknes sore, that dothe in secret wounde,
And gripes the harte, thoughe outward nothing showe;
The force whereof, the paciente doth confounde,
That oftentimes, dispaire therof doth growe:
And
And hellishe paine, that firste from
Which passion straunge, is alwaies beauties foe,
And moste of all, the married sorte enuies:
Oh happie they, that liue in wedlocke soe,
That in their brestes this furie neuer rise:
For, when it once doth harbour in the harte,
It soiournes still, and doth too late departe.
Did breede her bane, who mighte haue bath'de in blisse:
That all to late shee mourn'd, for her amisse:
For, whilst shee watch'd her husbandes waies to knowe,
Shee vnawares, was praye vnto his bowe.
lib. 7.
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