Astrophel and Stella: 104

Enuious wits what hath been mine offence,That with such poysonous care my looks you markThat to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,As grudging me my sorrowes eloquence?Ah, is it not ynough, that I am thence,Thence, so farre thence, that scarcely any sparkeOf comfort dare come to this dungeon darke,Where rigours exile lockes vp all my sense?But if I by a happy window passe,If I but starres vpon mine armour beare,Sicke, thirsty, glad (though but of emptie glasse:)Your morall notes straight my hid meaning teare,From out my ribs, and puffing proues that IDo Stella loue, fooles who doth it deny?