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cruel fortunes clouded with a frown,

Lurk in the bosom of eternal night;

My climbing thoughts are basely haulèd down;

My best devices prove but after-sight.

Poor outcast of the world's exilèd room,

I live in wilderness of deep lament;

No hope reserved me but a hopeless tomb,

When fruitless life and fruitful woes are spent.

Shall Phœbus hinder little stars to shine,

Or lofty cedar mushrooms leave to grow?

Sure mighty men at little ones repine,

The rich is to the poor a common foe.

Fidessa, seeing how the world doth go,

Joineth with fortune in my overthrow.