Though your strangenesse frets my hart

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.