FAIN would I my love disclose, Ask what honour might deny; But both love and her I lose, From my motion if she fly. Worse than pain is fear to me: Then hold in fancy though it burn! If not happy, safe I'll be, And to my cloistered cares return. Yet, O yet, in vain I strive To repress my schooled desire; More and more the flames revive, I consume in mine own fire. She would pity, might she know The harms that I for her endure: Speak then, and get comfort so; A wound long hid grows past recure. Wise she is, and needs must know All th' attempts that beauty moves: Fair she is, and honoured so That she, sure, hath tried some loves. If with love I tempt her then, 'Tis but her due to be desired: What would women think of men If their deserts were not admired? Women, courted, have the hand To discard what they distaste: But those dames whom none demand Want oft what their wills embraced. Could their firmness iron excel, As they are fair, they should be sought: When true thieves use falsehood well, As they are wise they will be caught. |