To whom his wench can say, "I never did it."10
He's cruel, and too much his grief doth favour,
That seeks the conquest by her loose behaviour.
Poor wretch,[260] I saw when thou didst think I slumbered;
Not drunk, your faults on the spilt wine I numbered.
I saw your nodding eyebrows much to speak,
Even from your cheeks, part of a voice did break.
Not silent were thine eyes, the board with wine
Was scribbled, and thy fingers writ a line.
I knew your speech (what do not lovers see?)