Water, Water I espie: Come, and coole ye; all who frie In your loves; but none as I. Though a thousand showres be Still a falling, yet I see Not one drop to light on me. Happy you, who can have seas For to quench ye, or some ease From your kinder Mistresses. I have one, and she alone, Of a thousand thousand known, Dead to all compassion. Such an one, as will repeat Both the cause, and make the heat More by Provocation great. Gentle friends, though I despaire Of my cure, doe you beware Of those Girles, which cruell are. |