Deere, Why Make You More Of A Dog Then Me? If He Doe Loue, I Burne, I Burne In Loue; If He Waite Well, I Neuer Thence Would Moue; If He Be Faire, Yet But A Dog Can Be; Little He Is, So Little Worth Is He; He Barks, My Songs Thine Owne Voyce Oft Doth Proue; Bidden, Perhaps He Fetched Thee A Gloue, But I, Vnbid, Fetch Euen My Soule To Thee. Yet, While I Languish, Him That Bosome Clips, That Lap Doth Lap, Nay Lets, In Spite Of Spite, This Sowre-Breath'D Mate Taste Of Those Sugred Lips. Alas, If You Graunt Onely Such Delight To Witlesse Things, Then Loue, I Hope (Since Wit Becomes A Clog) Will Soone Ease Me Of It.