|
| Thou call'st for more, |
| And in false sleepe from thee shrinke, |
| And then poore Aspen wretch, neglected thou |
| Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie |
| A veryer ghost than I; |
| What I will say, I will not tell thee now, |
| Let that preserve thee; and since my love is spent, |
| I'had rather thou shouldest painfully repent, |
| Then by my threatnings rest still innocent. |
|
| The broken heart. |
|
| He is starke madd, who ever sayes, |
| That he hath beene in love an houre, |
| Yet not that love so soone decayes, |
| But that it can ten in lesse space devoure; |
| Who will beleeve me, if I sweare |
| That I have had the Plague a yeare? |
| Who would not laugh at me if I should say, |
| I saw a flash of powder burne a day? |
|
| Ah, what a trifle is a heart, |
| If once into loves hands it come? |
| All other griefes allow a part |
| To other griefes, and ask themsleves but some, |
| They come to us, but us love drawes, |
| He wallowes us and never chawes: |
| By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks doe die, |
| He is the tyran Pike, our hearts the Frie.
|
[CW: If] |