Though your strangenesse frets my hart,
Yet may not I complaine :
You perswade me, 'tis but Art,
That secret loue must faine.
If another you affect,
Tis but a shew t'auoid suspect.
Is this faire excusing ?   O no, all is abusing.

Your wisht sight if I desire,
Suspitions you pretend,
Causelesse you your selfe retire,
While I in vaine attend.
This a Louer whets, you say,
Still made more eager by delay.
Is this faire excusing ?   O, no, all is abusing.

When another holds your hand,
You sweare I hold your hart :
When my Riuals close doe stand,
And I sit farre apart,
I am neerer yet then they,
Hid in your bosome, as you say.
Is this faire excusing ?   O no, all is abusing.

Would my Riual then I were,
Or els your secret friend :
So much lesser should I feare,
And not so much attend.
Then enioy you, eu'ry one,
Yet I must seeme your friend alone.
Is this faire excusing ?   O no, all is abusing.