Unrighteous lord of love, what law is this,
That me thou makest thus tormented be:
The whiles she lordeth in licentious bliss
Of her freewill, scorning both thee and me.
See how the Tyraness doth joy to see
The huge massacres which her eyes do make:
And humbled hearts brings captives unto thee,
That thou of them mayst mighty vengeance take.
But her proud heart do thou a little shake
And that high look, with which she doth comptroll
All this world's pride, bow to a baser make,
And all her faults in thy black book enroll.
That I may laugh at her in equal sort,
As she doth laugh at me and makes my pain her sport.