|Thy loue is bitter then high birth to me,
Richer then wealth,prouder then garments cost,
Of more delight then Hawkes or Horses bee:
And hauing thee,of all mens pride I boast.
Wretched in this alone,that thou maist take,
All this away,and me most wretched make.
|And life no longer then thy loue will stay,
For it depends vpon that loue of thine.
Then need I not to feare the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end,
I see,a better state to me belongs
Then that,which on thy humor doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant minde,
Since that my life on thy reuolt doth lie,
Oh what a happy title do I finde,
Happy to haue thy loue,happy to die!
But whats so blessed faire that feares no blot,
Thou maist be falce, and yet I know it not.
|May still seeme loue to me,though alter'd new:
Thy lookes with me,thy heart in other place.
For their can liue no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
In manies lookes,the falce hearts history
Is writ in moods and frounes and wrinckles strange.
But heauen in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet loue should euer dwell,
What ere thy thoughts, or thy hearts workings be,
Thy lookes should nothing thence, but sweetnesse tell.
How like Eaues.apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet vertue answere not thy show.