A. W.

SWEET Love, mine only treasure,

For service long unfeignèd,

Wherein I nought have gainèd

Vouchsafe this little pleasure,

To tell me in what part

My mistress keeps her heart.

If in her hair so slender

Like golden nets entwinèd

Which fire and art have ’finèd,

Her thrall my heart I render

For ever to abide

With locks so dainty tied.

If in her eyes she bind it,

Wherein that fire was framèd

By which it is inflamèd,

I dare not look to find it:

I only wish it sight

To see that pleasant light.

But if her breast have deignèd

With kindness to receive it,

I am content to leave it,

Though death thereby were gainèd.

Then, Lady, take your own

That lives for you alone.