To such as say, Thy Love I over-prize,
And doe not sticke to terme my Prayses folly;
Against these Folkes, that thinke themselves so wise,
I thus oppose my Reasons forces wholly:
Though I give more then well affords my state,
In which expence, the most suppose me vaine,
Which yeelds them nothing, at the easiest rate,
Yet at this price returnes me treble gaine.
They value not, unskilfull how to use,
And I give much, because I gaine thereby:
I that thus take, or they that thus refuse,
Whether are these deceived then, or I?

Is not Love here, as 'tis in other Clymes,
And diff'reth it, as doe the sev'rall Nations?
Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times,
Or in this Iland alt'reth with the Fashions?
Or have our Passions lesser pow'r then theirs,
Who had lesse Art them lively to expresse?
Is Nature growne lesse pow'rfull in their Heires,
Or in our Fathers did she more transgresse?
I am sure my Sighes come from a Heart as true,
As any Mans, that Memory can boast,
And my Respects and Services to you
Equall with his, that loves his Mistres most:

I ever love, where never Hope appeares,
Yet Hope drawes on my never-hoping Care,
And my Lives Hope would die, but for Despaire.
My never-certaine Joy breeds ever-certaine Feares,
Uncertaine Dread gives Wings unto my Hope;
Yet my Hopes Wings are laden so with Feare,
As they cannot ascend to my Hope's Sphere;
Though Feare gives them more then a Heav'nly Scope,
Yet this large Roome is bounded with Despaire,
So my Love is still fett'red with vaine Hope,
And Liberty deprives him of his Scope,
And thus am I imprison'd in the Aire:

I heare some say, this Man is not in love:
Who? can he love? a likely thing, they say;
Reade but his Verse, and it will eas'ly prove.
O, judge not rashly (gentle Sir) I pray,
Because I loosely trifle in this sort,
As one that faine his Sorrowes would beguile:
You now suppose me all this time in sport,
And please your selfe with this Conceit the while;
Yee shallow Censures, sometime see yee not,
In greatest Perils some Men pleasant be,
Where Fame by Death is onely to be got,
They resolute? so stands the case with me;

Love banish'd Heav'n, in Earth was held in scorne,
Wand'ring abroad in Need and Beggerie;
And wanting Friends, though of a Goddesse borne,
Yet crav'd the Almes of such as passed by:
I, like a Man devout, and charitable,
Clothed the Naked, lodg'd this wand'ring Ghest,
With Sighes and Teares still furnishing his Table,
With what might make the Miserable blest.
But this ungratefull, for my good desert,
Intic'd my Thoughts, against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steale away my Heart,
And set my Brest, his Lodging, on a fire.

With Fooles and Children good Discretion beares;
Then honest People, beare with Love and Me,
Nor older yet, nor wiser made by yeeres,
Amongst the rest of Fooles and Children be:
Love still a Baby, playes with Gawdes and Toyes,
And like a Wanton, sports with ev'ry Fether;
And Ideots still are running after Boyes,
Then Fooles and Children fitt'st to goe together:
He still as young as when he first was borne,
No wiser I, then when as young as he.
You that behold us, laugh us not to scorne,
Give Nature thankes, you are not such as we:

A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo'd,
(Yet his dull Spirit her not one jot could move)
Intreated me, as e'r I wish'd his good,
To write him but one Sonnet to his Love:
When I, as fast as e'r my Penne could trot,
Powr'd out what first from quicke Invention came;
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his Wit, that was to use the same:
But with my Verses he his Mistres wonne,
Who doted on the Dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to Heav'n for Phraze I runne,
And ransacke all A POLLO'S golden Treasure;

An evill spirit your beautie haunts Me still,
Where with (alas) I have beene long possest,
Which ceaseth not to tempt Me to each Ill,
Nor gives Me once, but one poore minutes rest:
In Me it speakes, whether I Sleepe or Wake,
And when by Meanes, to drive it out I try,
With greater Torments, then it Me doth take,
And tortures Me in most extremity;
Before my Face, it layes downe my Despaires,
And hastes Me on unto a sudden Death;
Now tempting Me, to drowne my Selfe in teares,
And then in sighing, to give up my breath;

Death met a little child beside the sea;
The child was ruddy and his face was fair,
His heart was gladdened with the keen salt air,
Full of the young waves' laughter and their glee.
Then Death stooped down and kissed him, saying: ‘To Thee,
My child, will I give summers rare and bright,
And flowers, and morns with never noon or night,
Or clouds to darken, if thou 'lt come with me.’
Then the child gladly gave his little hand,
And walked with Death along the shining sand,
And prattled gaily, full of hope, and smiled

Peace , health and strength, food, raiment, and content;
A heart well manag'd—and a life well spent:
A foul devoted and athirst for God ;
Courting his smile—but patient of his rod;
Each day more fit to breathe it's latest breath,
And then the most alive, when nearest D EATH .