But 'tis my heart that loves what they dispise,
Who in despight of view is pleasd to dote.
Nor are mine eares with thy tongues tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensuall feast with the alone:
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Diswade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswai'd the likenesse of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassall wretch to be:
  Onely my plague thus farre I count my gaine,
  That she that makes me sinne, awards me paine.
Love is my sinne, and my deare vertue hate,
Hate of my sinne, grounded on sinfull loving,
O but with mine, compare thou thine owne state,
And thou shalt finde it merits not reprooving,
Or if it doe, not from those lips of thine,
That have prophan'd their scarlet ornaments,
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Rob'd others beds reveneues of their rents.
Be it lawfull I love thee, as thou lov'st those,
Whom thine eyes woe as mine importune thee,
Roote pitty in thy heart that when it growes,
Thy pitty may deserve to pittied be.
  If thou dost seeke to have what thou dost hide,
  By selfe example mai'st thou be denide,

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