Ad amicam corruptam.

No love is so dear,—quivered Cupid, fly!—

That my chief wish should be so oft to die.

Minding thy fault, with death I wish to revel;

Alas! a wench is a perpetual evil.

No intercepted lines thy deeds display,

No gifts given secretly thy crime bewray.

O would my proofs as vain might be withstood!

Ay me, poor soul, why is my cause so good?

He's happy, that his love dares boldly credit;