The Lover prayeth his offered Heart to be received

HOW oft have I, my dear and cruel foe,

With my great pain to get some peace or truce,

Given you my heart; but you do not use

In so high things, to cast your mind so low.

If any other look for it, as you trow,

Their vain weak hope doth greatly them abuse:

And that thus I disdain, that you refuse;

It was once mine, it can no more be so.

If you it chafe, that it in you can find,

In this exile, no manner of comfort,

Nor live alone, nor where he is called resort;

He may wander from his natural kind.

So shall it be great hurt unto us twain,

And yours the loss, and mine the deadly pain.