[Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe]
1
Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe
If I enioy, or loue whom thou lou'st soe;
Since my affection euer secret tryde
Bloomes like the ferne, & seeds still vnespide.
2
And as the subtill flames of Heauen, that wound
The inward part, yet leaue the outward sound:
My loue warres on my heart, kills that within,
When merry are my lookes, & fresh my skin.
3
Of yellow Jaundice louers as you be,
Whose Faces straight proclaime their maladye,
Thinke not to find me one; who knowe full well,
That none but french & fooles loue now & tell.
4
His griefes are sweet, his Joyes (o) heauenly move,
Whoe from the world conceales his honest loue;
Nay, letts his Mistris know his passions source,
Rather by reason then by his discourse.
5
This is my way, and in this language new
Shewing my merit, it demands my due;
And hold this Maxim, spight of all dispute,
He askes enough that serues well & is mute.
