The poem
An evil spirit, your beauty haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possest, Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill, Nor gives me once but one poor minute's rest; In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake, And when by means to drive it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extremity; Before my face it lays down my despairs, And hastes me on unto a sudden death, Now tempting me to drown myself in tears, And then in sighing to give up my breath. Thus am I still provok'd to every evil By this good wicked spirit, sweet angel-devil.