|
| But that I may not this disgrace |
| Indure, nor leave this garden, Love let me |
| Some senslesse peece of this place be; |
| Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here, |
| Or a stone fountaine weeping out the yeare. |
|
| Hither with Christall vyals, lovers come, |
| And take my teares, which are loves wine, |
| And try your Mistresse Teares at home, |
| For all are false, that taste not just like mine; |
| Alas, hearts doe not in eyes shine, |
| Nor can you more judge womēs thoughts by teares, |
| Then by her shadow, what she weares. |
| O perverse sexe, where none is true but she, |
| Who's therefore true, because her truth kils me. |
|
| Valediction to his Booke. |
|
| I'll tell thee now (deare Love) what thou shalt doe |
| To anger destiny, as she doth us, |
| How I shall stay, though she esloigne me thus, |
| And how posterity shall know it too; |
| How thine may out-endure |
| Sybils glory, and obscure |
| Her who from Pindar could allure, |
| And her, through whose helpe Lucan is not lame, |
| And her, whose booke (they say) Homer did find, & name. |
|
| Study our manuscripts, those Myriades |
| Of letters, which have past 'twixt thee and me,
|
[CW: Thence] |