Because I breathe not love to every one,
Nor doe not use sette Colours for to weare:
Nor nourish speciall locks with vowed haire,
Nor give each speech a full point of a grone,
The Courtly Nymphes acquainted with the mone
Of them, which in their lips Loves Standard beare:
What he, (say they of me) now I dare sweare,
He cannot love: no, no, let him alone.
And thinke so still, so Stella know my minde.
Professe in deede, I do not Cupid’s art.
But you faire Maides, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge, is but worne in the hart.
Dumbe Swans, not chattering Pyes doe Lovers prove,
They love in deed, who quake to say they love.