Mine thinks on me, and then they dy.
"He turns, fight past, and foes inchased,
And lookes on me with helme unlaced,
Lifts his strong lyms, and brest strait graced,
And saies, kyss-blesse me, O hart-placed."
Flora her wrath in pants did spye,
And many a dart at hir lets flye:
"Thou canst not make with heaven-reacht crye
A camel pierce a needels eye.
"False goes for true, for honny, gall,