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

When your wisht sight I desire,
Suspition you pretend,
Causelesse you your selfe retire,
Whilst I in vaine attend.
Thus a louer as you say,
Still made more eager by delay.
Is this faire excusing ?   O, no, all is abusing.

When another holds your hand,
Youle sweare I hold your hart :
Whilst my riuall close doth 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,
Some else your secret friend :
So much lesser should I feare,
And not so much attend.
They enioy you, eu'ry one,
Yet I must seeme your friend alone.
Is this faire excusing ?   O no, all is abusing.