Fortune my Foe, why dost thou frown on me?
And will thy favours never better be?
Wilt thou, I say, for ever breed my pain?
And wilt thou not restore my joys again?

In vain I sigh, in vain I wail and weep;
In vain my eyes refrain from quiet sleep;
In vain I shed my tears both night and day;
In vain my love my sorrows to bewray.

Then will I place my love in Fortunes hands,
My dearest love, in most unconstant bands,
And only serve the sorrows due to me:
Sorrow, hereafter thou shalt my Mistress be.

Ah, silly Soul!  art thou so sore afraid?
Mourn not, my dear, nor be not so dismaid.
Fortune cannot, with all her power and skill,
Enforce my heart to think thee any ill.

Live thou in bliss, and banish death to [bad word] 
All careful thoughts see thou from thee expel:
As thou dost wish, thy love agrees to be.
For proof thereof, behold, [bad word] to thee.