BUT of thy heart too cruel I thee tell,
Which hath tormented my young budding age;
And doth, (unless your mildness, passions quell)
My utter ruin near at hand presage.
Instead of blood, which wont was to display
His ruddy red upon my hairless face;
By over-grieving, that is fled away:
Pale dying colour there hath taken place.
Those curlèd locks, which thou wast wont to twist,
Unkempt, unshorn, and out of order been;
Since my disgrace, I had of them no list.
Since when, these eyes no joyful day have seen:
Nor never shall, till you renew again
The mutual love which did possess us twain.