ruant, who obedience proffers,
And makes firme loue the obiect of his offers.
I will not boast of Parentage, or Lyne,
For all are base, respecting thee diuine:
Nor will I boast of wealth, or riches store,
For in thy face consists all wealth, and more.
Pure are my thoughts as skin betweene thy browes,
And eke as chaste my speech, my oathes, & vowes.
Speake sweetest fayre, but one kinde word to me,
How can alas that be offence in thee?
There was a Dame a moderne Poet sung,
_Hero_ by name, like thee, both faire and young:
And both so faire, that you did others passe
As farre as rarest Dyamonds common glasse.
VVhom young _Leander_ courted on a greene,
A Maide so faire (but thee) was neuer seene.
She granted loue, which he (alas) to gaine,
To reape those ioyes, did crosse the brinish Maine.
My loue to thee, I now compare to his;
Accounting danger, so requited, blisse.
There are no Seas to separate our ioy,
No future danger can our Loue annoy:
Then grant to me what she denide not him;
If good in her, in thee it is no sinne.
The Sunne hath shin'd thus long, o let not now
The Sunne be darkened by thine angry brow.
But rather let each looke a Comet be
That may presage my happy destinie.
I could to you a short discourse impart,
That would relent the direst stony hart,
VVer't not offence. It's no offence quoth she.
Then thus the same Ile briefely tell, quoth he:
A poore old man by chance did breake his leg,
And he was told where he was wont to beg,
That such a Surgion (telling of his name,)
If that he pleas'd, could quickly cure the same.
VVhich when he heard, to him for helpe he goes,
And craues for Gods sake he would ease his woes.
The Surgion greedy to haue coyne therefore,
But finding none, he would not heale the sore:
VVhich caus'd the poore old man to keepe his bed,
That he for want of helpe in time was dead.
Alas poore soule; (quoth shee) and did he dye?
VVould I were Iudge, or hee were such as I,
I so would vse the Surgion, as that hee
Should feele the griefe which he before did see.
Thus you confesse your wrong to me sweet Maid,
If you performe (quoth he) the vvords you said.
I am the man, who wounded, seeke reliefe:
And you, the causer of my endlesse griefe;
You are the Surgion, whom I vrge the more
To cure the wound because you made the sore.
Be not obdurate then, sith my disease
Is quickly cured, if