Lyke as the wynde with raging blaste

Lyke as the wynde with raging blaste
Dothe cawse eche tree to bo we and bende.
Even so do I spende my tyme in wast
My lyff consumyng into an ende.

For as the flame by force doeth quenche the fyer.
And runninge streames consume the rayne.
Even so do I myself desyer,
To augment my greffe and deadly payne.

Where as I fynde that whot is whot,
And colde is colde, by course of kynde.
So shall I knet an endles knot.
Such fruite in love alas I fynde.

When I foresaw those christall streames
Whose bewtie dothe cause my mortall wounde,
I lyttyll thought within those beames
So swete a venim for to have founde,

I fele and see my owne decaye,
As one that bearethe flame in his brest,
Forgetfull thought to put away,
The thynge that breadeth my unrest,

Lyke as the flye dothe seke the flame,
And afterwarde playeth in the fyer,
Who fyndeth her woo, and sekethe her game,
Whose greffe dothe growe of her owne desyer.

Lyke as the spider dothe drawe her lyne.
As labor lost so is my sute
The gayne is hers the losse is myne.
Of evell sowne seade suche is the frute.