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Make mee a Mandrake, soe I may groane heere Or a stone fountaine, weepinge out my Yeare: Hether with cristall vialls louers come And take my teares, which are loues wine And trie your Mistresse teares att home, For all are false, that taste not iust like myne Alass harts doe not in eies shine Nor can yow more iudge womens thoughts by teares Then by her shadowe, what shee weares O perverse sexe where none is true but shee Whos therefore true because her truth kills mee Deare loue for nothing lesse then thee Would I haue broke this happie dreame Itt was a theame For reason, Much too strong for fantasie Therfore thou wakst mee wisely; yett My dreame thou brokst not, but continvedst itt: Thou art soe truth, and fables Histories Enter these armes, for since thou thoughtst itt best Nott too dreame all my dreame, lets acte the rest As lighteninge or a Tapers light Thine eyes and not this noyse wakd mee Yett I thought thee (Thou loust truth) but an Angell at first sight But when I saw thou sawst my hart. |
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