Unhappy day, unhappy month and season,
When first proud love, my joys away adjourning,
Pourèd into mine eye to her eye turning
A deadly juice, unto my green thought's reason.
Prisoner I am unto the eye I gaze on;
Eternally my love's flame is in burning;
A mortal shaft still wounds me in my mourning;
Thus prisoned, burnt and slain, the spirit, soul and reason.
What tides me then since these pains which annoy me,
In my despair are evermore increasing?
The more I love, less is my pain's releasing;
That cursèd be the fortune which destroys me,
The hour, the month, the season, and the cause,
When love first made me thrall to lovers' laws.