I dream'd, the Nymph that ore my fancie raignes,
Came to a part whereas I paus'd alone;
Then said, what needs you in such sort to mone?
Haue I not power to recompence your paines?
Lo I coniure you by that loyall loue,
Which you professe, to cast those griefes apart,
It's long deare loue since that you had my hart,
Yet I was coy your constancie to proue,
But hauing had a proofe, Ile now be free:
I am the Eccho that your sighes resounds,
Your woes are mine, I suffer in your wounds,
Your passions all they sympathize in me:
Thus whil'st for kindnesse both began to weepe,
My happinesse euanish'd with the sleepe.
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