|
| The Message. |
|
| Send home my long-straid eyes to mee, |
| Which (oh) too long have dwelt on thee, |
| Yet since there they have learn'd such ill, |
| Such forc'd fashions, |
| And false passions, |
| That they bee |
| Made by thee |
| Fit for no good fight, keepe them still. |
|
| Send home my harmlesse heart againe, |
| Which no unworthy thought could staine, |
| But if it be taught by thine |
| To make jestings |
| Of protestings, |
| And breake both |
| Word and oath, |
| Keepe it, for then 'tis none of mine. |
|
| Yet send me backe my heart and eyes, |
| That I may know, and see thy lies, |
| And may laugh and joy, when thou |
| Art in anguish |
| And dost languish |
| For some one |
| That will none, |
| Or prove as false as thou art now,
|
[CW: A] |
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