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S one without refuge, For life doth pleade with panting breath And rufully the Iudge, Beholds (whose doome grants life or death,) So fare I now my onelie Loue, Whom I tender as Turtle Doue, Whose tender looks (O ioly ioy) Shall win me sure your louing boy: Faire lookes, sweet Dame, Or else (alas) I take my bane: Nice talke, coying, Wil bring me sure to my ending,

Too little is my skil, By pen (I saie) my loue to paint, And when that my good will, My tong wold shew, my heart doth faint: Sith both the meanes do faile therefore, My loue for to expresse with lore: The torments of my inward smart. You may well gesse within your hart: