My picture drown'd in a transparent teare,
When I looke lower I espie;
5Hadst thou the wicked skill
By pictures made and mard, to kill,
How many wayes mightst thou performe thy will?
But now I have drunke thy sweet salt teares,
And though thou poure more I'll depart;
10My picture vanish'd, vanish feares,
That I can be endamag'd by that art;