Sweet Mistresse, in thy slender hands
My heart is held, fast by Loves bandes,
And shouldst thou bid mee hence depart,
How might I go, without my heart?
Alas, my reason too has strayed
Into thy care; I'm sore afrayed
That shouldst thou send mee from thy side
Without my wits, I'll soone have dyed.
My soule for none but thee doth burn,
Mine eyes to thee alone do turne,
Thy honey'd voice is all I hear,
My tongue tells but my love so deare.
To send mee hence, poor witless foole,
Blind, deaf, and dumb, were far too cruel;
And since my best belongs to thee,
Why, keep the rest I'll ask no fee!
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Copyright
Chris Robertson 1999. All rights reserved.
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