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1603
DEAR TOM—
Tell her, if she to hired servants show | |
| Dislike, before they take their leave, they go, | |
| When nobler spirits start at no disgrace; | |
| For who hath but one mind, hath but one face. | |
| If then why I take not my leave she ask, | 5 |
| Ask her again why she did not unmask. | |
| Was she or proud or cruel, or knew she | |
| ’Twould make my loss more felt, and pitied me? | |
| Or did she fear one kiss might stay for moe? | |
| Or else was she unwilling I should go? | 10 |
| I think the best, and love so faithfully, | |
| I cannot choose but think that she loves me. | |
| If this prove not my faith, then let her try | |
| How in her service I would fructify. | |
| Ladies have boldly loved; bid her renew | 15 |
| That decay’d worth, and prove the times past true. | |
| Then he whose wit and verse grows now so lame, | |
| With songs to her will the wild Irish tame. | |
| Howe’er, I’ll wear the black and white ribband; | |
| White for her fortunes, black for mine shall stand. | 20 |
| I do esteem her favour, not the stuff; | |
| If what I have was given, I have enough. | |
| And all’s well, for had she loved, I’d not had | |
| All my friend’s hate; for now departing sad | |
| I feel not that; yet as the rack the gout | 25 |
| Cures, so hath this worse grief that quite put out. | |
| My first disease naught but that worse cureth, | |
| Which, I dare foresay, nothing cures but death. | |
| Tell her all this, before I am forgot, | |
| That not too late she grieve she loved me not. | 30 |
| Burden’d with this, I was to depart less | |
| Willing than those which die, and not confess. | |
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