The Cruell Mistresse

Tell me O love why Celia, smooth
As Seas when winds forbear to sooth
Their waves to wanton curles, then down
More soft which doth the Thistle Crown,
Whither then is the milky road
That leades to Joves supreme aboad,
Should harder far and rougher be
Then most obdurate rocks to me;
Sheds on my hopes as little day
As the pale Moon's aclipsed ray?
My heart would break, but that I hear
Love gently whisper in my ear,
Actions of women by affection lead
Must backward like the sacred tongue, be read