The abused Lover resolveth to forget his unkind Mistress

WHAT no, perdie! ye may be sure!

Think not to make me to your lure,

With words and chere so contrarying,

Sweet and sower countre-weighing,

Too much it were still to endure.

Truth is tried, where craft is in ure,

But though ye have had my heartes cure,

Trow ye! I dote without ending?

What no, perdie!

Though that with pain I do procure

For to forget that once was pure;

Within my heart shall still that thing

Unstable, unsure, and wavering,

Be in my mind without recure?

What no, perdie!