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I swear, fair Licia, still for to be thine, By heart, by eyes, by what I held most dear; Thou checked mine oath, and said: these were not mine, And that I had no right by them to swear. Then by my sighs, my passions, and my tears, My vows, my prayers, my sorrow, and my love, My grief, my joy, my hope, and hopeless fears, My heart is thine, and never shall remove. These are not thine, though sent unto thy view, All else I grant, by right they are thine own; Let these suffice that what I swear is true, And more than this if that it could be known. So shall all these though troubles ease my grief; If that they serve to work in thee belief.
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When as my love lay sickly in her bed, Pale death did post in hope to have a prey;
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Hear how my sighs are echoed of the wind; See how my tears are pitied by the rain;
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I speak, fair Licia, what my torments be, But then my speech too partial do I find;
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