If floods of teares could cleanse my follies past,
And smoakes of sighes might sacrifice for sinne,
If groning cries might salve my fault at last,
Or endles moan, for error pardon win,
Then would I cry, weepe, sigh, and ever mone,
Mine errors, fault, sins, follies past and gone.
I see my hopes must wither in their bud,
I see my favors are no lasting flowers,
I see that woords will breede no better good,
Then losse of time and lightening but at houres,
Thus when I see then thus I say therefore,
That favors hopes and words, can blinde no more.
