I.

WHO hath e’er felt the change of love, And known those pangs that losers prove, May paint my face without seeing me, And write the state how my fancies be, The loathsome buds grown on Sorrow’s tree.

But who by hearsay speaks, and hath not fully felt What kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt, Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease, Feeling my pulse, miss my disease.