Thy power on him why hop’st thou more
Than his on me should be?10
The claim thou lay’st to him is poor
To that he owns from me.
His substance in my heart excels,
His shadow, in thy sight:
Fire where it burns more truly dwells15
Than where it scatters light.
The Sick Lover.
[Guarini.]
My sickly breath
Wastes in a double flame,
Whilst Love and Death
To my poor life lay claim;
The fever in whose heat I melt5
By her that causeth it[61:1] not felt.
Thou who alone
Canst, yet wilt grant no ease,
Why slight’st thou one,
To feed a new disease?10
Unequal Fair! the heart is thine:
Ah, why then should the pain be mine?
Time Recover’d.
[Casone.]