The Louer whose Lady dwelt fast by a Prison

ONe day I hide mee fast vnto the place
where lodgde my Loue, a passing propre dame
For head, hand, leg, lim, wealth, wit, comly grace:
And being there my sute I gan to frame,
The smokie sighes bewrayde my fierie flame.
But cruell shee, disdainefull, coy and curst,
Forst not my words, but quaild hir Friend at furst.
Whereat I lookte me vp a wofull Wight,
And threw mine eies vp to the painted Skie,
In minde to waile my hap: And saw in sight
Not farre from thence a place where Prisners lie,
For crimes forepast the after paines to trie:
A Laberinth, a lothsome Lodge to dwell,
A Dungeon déepe, a Dampe as darke as Hell.
Oh happie you (quoth I) that féele the force
Of girding Gyue, thirst, colde and stonie bed,
Respect of mée, whose loue hath no remorce:
In death you liue, but I in life and ded,
Your ioy is yet to come, my pleasure fled.
In prison you haue mindes at fréedome aye,
I frée am thrall, whose loue séekes his decaye.
Vnworthy you to liue in such distresse
Whose former faults repentance did bewaile:
More fitter were this Ladie mercilesse
At grate to stand, with whome no teares preuaile:
More worthy she to liue in lothsome Gaile
That murders such as sue to hir for lyfe,
And spoyles hir faithfull Friends wt spiteful knyfe.