THOUGH your strangeness frets my heart, Yet may not I complain: You persuade me, 'tis but art, That secret love must feign. If another you affect, 'Tis but a show, t'avoid suspect. Is this fair excusing? O, no! all is abusing! Your wished sight if I desire, Suspicions you pretend: Causeless you yourself retire, While I in vain attend. This a lover whets, you say, Still made more eager by delay. Is this fair excusing? O, no! all is abusing! When another holds your hand, You swear I hold your heart: When my rivals close do stand, And I sit far apart, I am nearer yet than they, Hid in your bosom, as you say. Is this fair excusing? O, no! all is abusing! Would my rival then I were, Or else your secret friend: So much lesser should I fear, And not so much attend. They enjoy you, every one, Yet I must seem your friend alone. Is this fair excusing? O, no! all is abusing! |