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.
