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Because I
breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set
colours for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of
vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a
groan,
The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear,
"What, he!" say they of me, "now I dare swear
He
cannot love. No, no, let him alone." -
And think so
still, so Stella know my mind!
Profess indeed I do
not Cupid's art;
But you, fair maids, at length this
true shall find,
That his right badge is worn but in
the heart.
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers
prove:
They love indeed who quake to say they love.
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