Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

FOR pity, pretty eyes, surcease

To give me war, and grant me peace.

Triumphant eyes, why bear you arms

Against a heart that thinks no harms?

A heart already quite appalled,

A heart that yields and is enthralled?

Kill rebels, proudly that resist;

Not those that in true faith persist,

And conquered serve your deity.

Will you, alas! command me die?

Then die I yours, and death my cross;

But unto you pertains the loss.