What rage is this ? What furour of what kynd

What rage is this ? What furour of what kynd ?
What powre, what plage doth wery thus my mynd ?
With in my bons to rancle is assind
What poyson, plesant swet?

Lo se myn iyes swell with contynuall terys
The body still away sleples it weris :
My fode nothing my faintyng strenght reperis,
Nor doth my lyms sustayne.

In diepe wid wound the dedly stroke doth torne
To curid skarre that never shall retorne.
Go to, triumph, reioyse thy goodly torne,
Thi frend thow dost opresse.

Opresse thou dost and hast off hym no cure :
Nor yett my plaint no pitie can procure :
Fiers tygre fell, hard rok withowt recure
Quell rebell to love.

Ons may thou love never belovffd agayne ;
So love thou still and not thy love obtayne ;
So wrathfull love, vith spites of just disdayne
May thret thy cruell hert.