But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee;
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
The imprisond absence of your liberty;
Yourself again, after yourselfs decease,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
A maid of Dians this advantage found,
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
O! know sweet love I always write of you,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
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