My dearest, you may pray now it is Lent,
But ought not fast: nor have you to repent,
Since then in all you've thought, or said or done,
No motes appear though sifted by the sun.
Lent made for penance, then to you may be,
Since you are innocent, a jubily.
If not for others then, why don't you spare
Those tears which for yourself prophaned are.
Hymns of thanksgiving and of joy befit
Such a triumphant virtue, and for it
Not to rejoice, were as preposterous ill,
As in your vices to be merry still.
But if you reply, 'tis fit you sigh and grone,
Since you have made my miseries your owne;
You feel my faults as yours, so them lament,
And expiate those sins I should repent.
O cease this sorrow doubly now my due,
First for my self, but more for love of you.
Ile undertake what justice can exact
By any penance, if you will retract
Those sorrows you usurp, which doe procure
A payne I only cannot well endure.