Wherest thou commend in me to sprout your glories and yet remain as layin' sheep,
wolf in clothing's sheep or either meek but both do bare their teeth.
For heavens graces to smile at my speech,
with purest faith and weighted hope
sayest he, favors in labors toil inherit fortunes deep, laid on modest honor,
ingloriously preserved.
And the fool did not know he fool 'til misfortune hung his head,
and the longings in neatly types letters do bare hypocrisy and I sit a distance to both,
no victors to my name, my idiocy my only own.

The old crooked chair where your memory lay buried, where you planted thorns but flowers springed,
with a cold sneer in your tone, but thy speech now remain barren.
Under a curtain of vanity and sorrow,
old deeds did visit me there,
where they borough into my despair,
but faith spared me fair,
twilight and fairies danced upon crystal streams,
dared they steal lady lucks' gaze,
with a hymn that delighted my ears,
as though existence hugged me slightly.
Pair of eyes from woods did stare,
lingering to strain hopes hopeful glare.

Wherest thou claim me lord of my soul and yet to thy dreams tied a knot,
he judged it fair, thy soul was barren land.
Fortunes struck by tidings of luck, a great virtue there, bore no sullen lips, once Fortune's fool but now, stole fortunes gaze.
Wherest thou claim my glories and to thy dreams remain ties a knot, my heart still thou cannot claim,
for I've gone and sold what should not be dealt.

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