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12. The Suit.
AH me, Rosella! what dost meane?
Must I weane
From thee mine eyes away so quick?
Can one glance
Ere advance
Future hopes, or a dance
To remain in my breast? I am sick.
2.
I am deeply sick of love;
Come, remove
These mists away by thy bright face:
You can cease
(If you please)
The rage of my diseases,
'Tis your sweet presence doth it chase.
3.
Have you a heart to teare and rent
My content?
Is this the rhetorick of your zeale?
Have you vow'd
To be proud?
'Cause Nature you indow'd
With beauty both to kill and heale?
Oh stay and doe not leave the City:
Heale me for love or else for pity.