Though I thy Mithridates[25] were
Framed to defy the poisondart,
Yet must thou fold me unaware
To know the rapture of thy heart
And I but render and confess
The malice of thy tenderness.
For elegant and antique phrase,
Dearest, my lips wax all too wise;
Nor have I known a love whose praise
Our piping poets solemnise,
Neither a love where may not be
Ever so little falsity.