Stella oft sees the very face of woe br Painted in my beclouded stormy face: br But cannot skill to pity my disgrace, br Not though thereof the cause herself she know: br br Yet hearing late a fable, which did show br Of lovers never known, a grievous case, br Pity thereof gat in her breast such place br That, from that sea deriv'd, tears' spring did flow. br br Alas, if fancy drawn by imag'd things, br Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breed br Than servant's wrack, where new doubts honor brings; br br Then think, my dear, that you in me do read br Of lovers' ruin some sad tragedy: br I am not I, pity the tale of me.