If he doe love, alas I burne in love;
If he waite well, I never thence would move;
If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be;
Little he is, so little worth is he:
He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove;
Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheth thee a glove?
But I unbid, fetch even my soule to thee
Yet while I languish, him that bosome clips,
That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spight
This sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips;