|
| To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, |
| All is the purlue of the God of Love. |
| Were we not weak'ned by this Tyranny |
| To ungod this child again, it could not be |
| I should love her, who loves not me. |
|
| Rebel and Atheist too, why murmure I. |
| As though I felt the worst that love could do? |
| Love may make me leave loving, or might try |
| A deeper plague, to make her love me too, |
| Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see; |
| Falshood is worse than hate; and that must be, |
| If she whom I love, should love me. |
|
| Loves diet. |
|
| To what a combersom unwieldiness |
| And burdenous corpulence my love had grown, |
| But that I did, to make it less, |
| And keep it in proportion, |
| Give it a diet, made it feed upon |
| That which love worst indures, discretion. |
|
| Above one sigh a day I allow'd him not, |
| Of which my fortune, and my faults had part; |
| And if sometimes by stealth he got |
| A she sigh from my mistress heart, |
| And thought to feast on that, I let him see |
| 'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to me: |
|
| If he wrung from me a tear, I brin'd it so |
| With scorn or shame, that him it nourish'd not; |
| If he suck'd hers, I let him know |
| 'Twas not a tear, which he had got.
|
[CW: His] |