Dear, why hath my long love, and faith unfeigned,
At your fair hands no grace at all obtained?

Is 't that my pock-holed face doth beauty lack?
No: your sweet sex, sweet beauty praiseth:
Ours, wit and valour chiefly raiseth.

Is't that my muskless clothes are plain and black?
No: what wise lady loves fine noddies,
With poor-clad minds, and rich-clad bodies?

Is't that no costly gifts mine agents are?
No: my true heart, which I present you,
Should more than pearl or gold content you.

Is't that my verses want invention rare?
No: I was never skilful poet,
I truly love, and plainly shew it.

Is't that I vaunt, or am effeminate?
Oh scornful vices! I abhor you,
Dwell still in court, the place fit for you.

Is't that you fear my love soon turns to hate?
No: though disdained, I can hate never;
But loved, where once I love, love ever.

Is't that your favours jealous eyes suppress?
No: only virtue never sleeping,
Hath your fair mind and body's keeping.

Is't, that to many more I love profess?
Goddess, you have my heart's oblation;
And no saint else lips' invocation.

No, none of these. The cause I now discover;
No woman loves a faithful worthy lover.