Thomas Campion (1567–1620)

WERE my heart as some men’s are, thy errors would not move me,

But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee:

Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting,

Than th’ obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting:

Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.

While I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason,

Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season:

Hidden mischief to conceal in State and Love is treason.