DEAR! why make you more of a dog, than me?
If he do love; I burn, I burn in love!
If he wait well; I never thence would move!
If he be fair; yet but a dog can be.
Little he is, so little worth is he. 5
He barks; my songs, thine own voice oft doth prove.
Bidden perhaps, he fetcheth thee a glove;
But I unbid, fetch even my soul to thee!
Yet while I languish; him, that bosom clips,
That lap doth lap, nay, lets in spite of spite, 10
This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips.
Alas, if you grant only such delight
To witless things; then LOVE I hope (since wit
Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.
DEAR! why make you more of a dog, than me? If he do love; I burn, I burn in love! If he wait well; I never thence would move! If he be fair; yet but a dog can be. Little he is, so little worth is he. 5He barks; my songs, thine own voice oft doth prove. Bidden perhaps, he fetcheth thee a glove; But I unbid, fetch even my soul to thee! Yet while I languish; him, that bosom clips, That lap doth lap, nay, lets in spite of spite, 10This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips. Alas, if you grant only such delight To witless things; then LOVE I hope (since wit Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.
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