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I.
Now fie
upon that everlasting life! I dye!
She hates! Ah me!
It makes me mad;
As if love fir'd his torch at a
moist eye,
Or with his joyes e're crown'd the sad.
Oh, let me live and shout, when I fall on;
Let me
ev'n triumph in the first attempt!
Loves duellist
from conquest 's not exempt,
When his fair murdresse
shall not gain one groan,
And he expire ev'n in
ovation.
II.
Let me make my approach, when I
lye downe
With counter-wrought and travers eyes;
With peals of confidence batter the towne;
Had ever
beggar yet the keyes?
No, I will vary stormes with
sun and winde;
Be rough, and offer calme condition;
March in and pread, or starve the garrison.
Let her
make sallies hourely: yet I'le find
(Though all beat
of) shee's to be undermin'd.
III.
Then may it
please your little excellence
Of hearts t' ordaine,
by sound of lips,
That henceforth none in tears dare
love comence
(Her thoughts ith' full, his, in th'
eclipse);
On paine of having 's launce broke on her
bed,
That he be branded all free beauties' slave,
And his own hollow eyes be domb'd his grave:
Since in
your hoast that coward nere was fed,
Who to his
prostrate ere was prostrated.
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