A Poem.
GO Muse vnto the Bower, whereas my mistres dwels,
And tell her of her seruāts loue, but tel her nothing els.
And speake but in her eare, that none may heare but she,
That if she not the sooner helpe, there is no helpe for me.
Not that I •…•…eare to speake, but it is strange to heare,
That shee will neuer looke on him, that holds her loue so deare.
Perhaps she knowes it not, or if she do she will not,
Yet let her kindnes haue a care, that though she hurt she kil not.
And though it be to strange, yet let her this beleue me,
That dead mē liue, yet I am dead, yet liue if she releue me,
For yet are not so colde the coales of kinde desire,
But in the ashes liues a sparke, to kindle loue a fire.
Which fier his fuell hath, but from those fairest eies,
Where faith doth burne & fancie flame, & fauor neuer dies