Envious wits, what hath been mine offence,
That with such poisonous care my looks you mark,
That to each word, nay sigh of mine, you hark,
As grudging me my sorrow's eloquence?
Ah, is it not enough that I am thence,
Thence, so far thence, that scarcely any spark
Of comfort dare come to this dungeon dark,
Where rigor's exile locks up all my sense?
But if I by a happy window pass,
If I but stars upon mine armor bear
Sick, thirsty, glad, though but of empty glass
Your moral notes straight my hid meaning tear
From out my ribs, and puffing, proves that I
Do Stella love; fools, who doth it deny?