Tixall Poetry.
189
But I die with jealous care,
In the midst of all my pleasure.
In the midst of all my pleasure.
Free and easie without pride,
Is her language and her fashion;
Setting gentle love aside,
She is not mov'd with any passion.
When she saies I have her hart,
Though I ought not to believe her,
She soe kindly plaies her part,
I could be deceived for ever.
Is her language and her fashion;
Setting gentle love aside,
She is not mov'd with any passion.
When she saies I have her hart,
Though I ought not to believe her,
She soe kindly plaies her part,
I could be deceived for ever.
LVII.
The Constant Lover.
I cannot change as others doe,
Though you unkindly scorne,
That faithfull swaine that sighs for you,
For you alone was borne.
Though you unkindly scorne,
That faithfull swaine that sighs for you,
For you alone was borne.
