|
Iust soe much honor, when thou yeldest* to me [f. 100] |
Will wast, as this fleas death tooke life from thee.| |
|
The Curse |
|
Who ever guesses, thinkes, or dreames he knowes |
Who is my Mistres, whither* by this curse. |
His only and only his purse |
May some dull harte to loue dispose |
And she yield then to all that are his foes |
May he be scornd by one, whom all else scorne, |
Forsweare to others, what to her he hath sworne |
Wth feare of missing, shame of getting torne.| |
|
Madnes his sorrow, Gowte his Cramps may hee |
Make, by but thinking, who hath made him such, |
And may he feele noe touch |
Of Conscience, but of frame,* And be |
Anguishd, not twas sinne, but that twas shee, |
In Early and longe scarcenes may he rott |
For land, wch had bin his, if he had nott |
Himself incestuously an heire begott.| |
|
May he dreame treason, and beleeve that he |
Meant to performe it, and confesse and die |
And noe record tell why,
|
[CW: His] |