Though I Thy Mithridates Were

Though I thy Mithridates were,

Framed to defy the poison-dart,

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 solemnize,

Neither a love where may not be Ever so little falsity.