My sonne give mee thy heart.
And why my heart, since I have none,
Or if I have perhaps 'tis stone,
And rather than have such a one,
Better have none.
Lord canst thou chuse no other part,
The world alas hath stole my heart
Pleasure intis't it by strange Art
From mee to part.
One Angell lust, and all the rest
Possesses it, or else as bad a guest,
And in the midd'st there is a neast
For sloath to rest.
Envie would have it all, but pride
Disdaining, any should divide
Possession there.
Enter and then, as tyrants who,
By bloud are rais'd, their states undoe,
Doth domineere.