As the trees sap doth seeke the root below
In winter, in my winter now I goe,
15Where none but thee, th'Eternall root
Of true Love I may know.
Nor thou nor thy religion dost controule,
The amorousnesse of an harmonious Soule,
But thou would'st have that love thy selfe: As thou
20Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now,
Thou lov'st not, till from loving more, thou free
My soule: Who ever gives, takes libertie: