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Shall wee loue ill thinges ioynd, and hate each one? If yow were good your good doth soone decaie And yow are rare, that takes the good awaie; All my perfumes I giue moste willingly To embalme thy fathers corse; what will hee dy?| Heere take my Picture, though I bid farwell Thine in my hart, where my Soule dwells shall dwell Tis like mee now, But I dead twill bee more, When wee are shadowes both then twas before When weatherbeaten I come back my hand Perhaps with rude Ores torne, or sunbeames tan̅d My face, and brest of haire=cloth, and my head With cares rash suddaine stormes beinge orespred My boddy a sack of bones broken with in And powders blew staines scatterd on my skin If riuall fooles tax thee to haue loud a man Soe foule and course, as oh, I may seeme than This shall saie what I was, And thou shalt saie Doe his hurts reach mee? doth my worth decaie Or doe they reach his iudginge mynde that hee Showld now loue lesse, what hee did loue too see That with in him is faire, and delicate Was but the milke, which in loues chyldish state Did nurse it: who now is growne strange enough Too feede on that which toe disusd tastes seemes tough. |
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