What, have I thus betraide my libertie,
Can those black beames, such burning marks engrave
In my free side, or am I borne a slave,
Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie?
Or want I sence to feele my miserie,
Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have,
Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave,
May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie.
Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is;
I may, I must, I can, I will, I doe
Leave following that which it is gaine to misse,
Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to,
Unkind I love you, not, (O mee) that eye
Doth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.