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Poem	SO oft as homeward I from her depart, I goe lyke one that hauing lost the field: is prisoner led away with heauy hart, despoyld of warlike armes and knowen shield. So doe I now my selfe a prisoner yeeld, to sorrow and to solitary paine: from presence of my dearest deare exylde, longwhile alone in languor to remaine. There let no thought of ioy or pleasure vaine, dare to approch, that may my solace breed: but sudden dumps and drery sad disdayne, of all worlds gladnesse more my torment feed. So I her absens will my penaunce make, that of her presens I my meed may take.
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