om his secure Caue)
VVould he cut out the cause of all his moane,
and curiouslie with greatest skill ingraue:
There needed no _Leontius_, his Art,
Griefe carueth deepest, if it come from th'hart.

VVhen some stone would not impression take
hee straight compares it to his Mistris hart,
But stay, (quoth he) my working teares shall make
thee penetrable with the least skil'd art.
Oh had my teares such force to pierce her mind,
These sorrowes I should loose, and new ioyes find.

Thou euer-memorable stone (quoth hee)
tell those whom fate or fortune heere shall lead,
How deerely I haue lou'd the cruel'st shee
that euer Nature or the world hath bred.
Tell them her hate, and her disdaine was causelesse,
Oh, leaue not out to tell how I was guiltlesse.

Whereat, the very stone would seeme to weepe,
whose wrinkled face wold be besmeard with tears
O man what ere thou be, thy sorrowes keepe
vnto thy selfe, quoth hee; ile heare no cares.
Tell them that care not, tell _Gyneura_ of thee,
We stones are ruthfull, & thy plaints haue pierc'd mee.

VVith this, hee seekes a russet-coated Tree,
& straight disclothes him of his long-worne weed
And whilest hee thus disroabes him busilie,
hee felt his halfe-dead hart a fresh to bleed.
Greeuing that hee should vse such crueltie,
To turne him naked to his foe, windes furie.

But now vncas'ed, hee gins to carue his cares,
his passions, his constant-lyuing Loue,
When (loe) there gushes out cleere sap like teares
which to get forth from pryson mainly stroue,
Since pitty dwells (quoth hee) in trees and stone,
Them will I loue; _Gyneura_, thou hast none.

Yet needs I must confesse thou once didst loue mee,
thy loue was hotter then _Nimphaeum_ hill,
But now wh[=e] time affords me, means to proue thee,
thy loue then _Caucase_ is more cold and chill,
And in thy cold, like Aethiopyan hue,
Thou art not to be chang'd from false to true.

O looke (faire Loue) as in the springing Plant
one branch intwines and growes within another,
So growe my griefes; which makes my hart to pant
when thicke-fetcht sighes my vitall breath doth smother,
I spoild my cruelty am adiudg'd to death,
Thus all alone to yield my lyuing breath.

Thou hast the fayrest face that e're was seene,
but in thy breast (that Alablaster Rocke)
Thou hast a fouler hart; disdaine hath beene
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