58. Be Your Words Made, Good Sir, of Indian Ware

BE your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware,

That you allow me them by so small rate?

Or do you cutted Spartans imitate?

Or do you mean my tender ears to spare

That to my questions you so total are?

When I demand of Phœnix-Stella’s state,

You say, forsooth, you left her well of late:

O God, think you that satisfies my care?

I would know whether she did sit or walk;

How clothed; how waited on; sighed she, or smiled;

Whereof, with whom, how often did she talk;

With what pastime Time’s journey she beguiled;

If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name:

Say all; and, all well said, still say the same.