DRAWN, cunning Painter, hast thou with great art,
The Shadow [_Image_] of my lovely LAURA fair;
Which object sweet not smally joys my heart:
But little didst thou think, nor wast thou 'ware,
That where thou thought'st my fancy for to please,
Effect contrary sorts to my desire:
So that it breeds, in body mine, unease;
And, senseless, burns my heart with feeling fire.
O strange success! What made was for content
Doth most displease; and, lifeless, doth torment.