Sweet love, thou'rt branded now upon my life So deepe, thou art a very parte of mee; And if I stryve to sunder my selfe free It means my death--for see, my surgeons knife Faste in my heart lies lodg'd, and I doe bleede With every cutte made to denie my need To look on thy deare face And seek the benison of thy souls grace. Shall it not bee of farre more gaine to thee For mee to live as thine owne servant true And honour thee in all things thatt I doe, Than in my grave a mould'ring corpse to bee? Dear love, know that I freely make my choice To praise thee alwayes, both by deed and voice-- So license mee loves slave, And bid mee not departe to seek my grave. For if I must persiste, and cutte away That part of me which hath become thine own And die, my soule, from Heav'n denied, alone In weary suff'ring shall await thatte daye When thou to blisse eternal dost ascend And I may hope my paine at laste shall end-- For surely then thatt love I gave to thee For one sweet houre shall bee return'd to mee, Thatt I may find surcease In thee, and my bright haven, and my peace. |