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I fix myne eye on thine, and there Pitty my picture burning in thine eye My picture drownd in a transparant teare; When I looke lower I espie, Hadst thou the wicked skill, By pictures made, and marrd to kill, How many waies mights thou performe thy will? But now I haue drunk thy sweet salt teares, And though thou, powre more Ile departe, My Picture vanisht, vanisht feares That I can bee endamagd by that art, Though thou retaine of mee One Picture more, yet that will bee Beeing in thyne owne hart, from all mallice free. Hee is stark mad who euer saies That hee hath been in loue an hower Yet not that loue, soe soone decaies But that it can ten in lesse space deuoure. Who will beleeve mee if I sweare, That I haue had the Plague a yeare Whoe would not laugh att mee, if I should saie I sawe a flash of powder burne a daie? |
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