Can she excuse my wrongs with Virtue's cloak?
Shall I call her good when she proves unkind?
Are those clear fires which vanish to smoke?
Must I praise the leaves where no fruit I find?
No, no: where shadows do for bodies stand,
Thou may'st be abused, thy sight be dim.
Cold love is like to words written on sand.
Or to bubbles which on the water swim.
Better a thousand times to die,
Than for to live thus still tormented:
Dear, but remember it was I
Who for thy sake did die
If she will yield, to that which reason is,
It is Reason's will that Love should be just.
Dear make me happy still by granting this,
Or cut off delays if that I die must.

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