A Sicknes sore, that dothe in secret wounde,
And gripes the harte, thoughe outward nothing showe;
The force whereof, the paciente doth confounde,
That oftentimes, dispaire therof doth growe:
And Jelousie; this sicknes hathe to name,
An hellishe paine, that firste from PLUTO came.
Which passion straunge, is alwaies beauties foe,
And moste of all, the married sorte envies:
Oh happie they, that live in wedlocke soe,
That in their brestes this furie never rise:
For, when it once doth harbour in the harte,
It sojournes still, and doth too late departe.
Lo PROCRIS heare, when wounded therwithall,
Did breede her bane, who mighte have bath'de in blisse:
This corsie sharpe so fedde uppon her gall,
That all to late shee mourn'd, for her amisse:
For, whilst shee watch'd her husbandes waies to knowe,
Shee unawares, was praeye unto his bowe.