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If flouds of teares could clense my follies past,
And smokes of sighs might sacrifice for sin,
If groning cries might salue my fault at last,
Or endles mone for error pardon win;
Then would I crie, weepe, sigh, and euer mone
Mine error, fault, sins, follies past and gone.

I see my hopes must wither in their bud,
I see my fauours are no lasting flowers,
I see that words will breath no better good
Than losse of time, and lightning but at howers:
Then when I see, then this I say therefore,
That fauours, hopes, and words, can blinde no more.