Tis not 'ith' pow'r of all thy scorne 
Or unrelenting bate, 
To quench my flames, or make them burne 
With heat more temperate: 
Still doe I struggle with dispaire, 
And ever court disdain; 
And though you ne're prove lesse severe, 
Ile doat upon my paine. 

Yet meaner beauties cannot claime
In Love this tyranny,
They must pretend an equall flame,
Or else our passions die:
You fair Clarinda you alone
Are priz'd at such a rate
To have a Votary of one
Whom you doe reprobate.