Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares, 
   Hither I come to seeke the spring, 
   And at mine eyes, and at mine eares, 
Receive such balmes, as else cure every thing, 
   But O, selfe traytor, I do bring 
The spider love, which transubstantiates all, 
   And can convert Manna to gall, 
And that this place may thoroughly be thought 
   True Paradise, I have the serpent brought. 

'Twere wholsomer for mee, that winter did 
   Benight the glory of this place, 
   And that a grave frost did forbid 
These trees to laugh and mocke mee to my face; 
   But that I may not this disgrace 
Indure, nor yet leave loving, Love let mee 
   Some senslesse peece of this place bee; 
Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here, 
Or a stone fountaine weeping out my yeare. 

Hither with chirstall vyals, lovers come, 
   And take my teares, which are loves wine, 
   And try your mistresse Teares at home, 
For all are false, that tast not just like mine; 
   Alas, hearts do not in eyes shine, 
Nor can you more judge womens thoughts by teares, 
   Then by her shadow, what she weares. 
O perverse sexe, where none is true but shee, 
   Who's therefore true, because her truth kills mee.