1. I, Others may with safety tell The moderate Flames, which in them dwell; And either find some Med'cin there, Or cure themselves even by Despair; My Love's so great, that it might prove Dangerous, to tell her that I Love. So tender is my wound, it must not bear, Any salute, though of the kindest aire. 2. I would not have her know the pain, The Torments for her I sustain; Lest too much goodnesse make her throw Her Love upon a Fate too low. Forbid it Heaven my Life should be Weigh'd with her least Conveniencie. No, let me perish rather with my grief, Then to her disadvantage find reliefe. 3. Yet when I dye, my last breath shall Grow bold, and plainly tell her all. Like covetous men who nere discry Their deare hid Treasures 'till they dye. Ah, fayrest Mayd, how should it chear My Ghost, to get from Thee a Tear! But take heed; for if me thou pitiest then, Twenty to one but I shall live again. |