When any least thought in you is but touch't,170
And shall be till I know your former merits,
Your name and memory, altogether crave
In just oblivion their eternall grave;
And then, you must heare from me, there's no meane
In any passion I shall feele for you.175
Love is a rasor, cleansing, being well us'd,
But fetcheth blood still, being the least abus'd.
To tell you briefly all—the man that left me
When you appear'd, did turne me worse than woman,