To have the meate might save him in his eye,
And may not have it: so am I tormented,
To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented. 20
Well, Franke, although thou woedst and quickly wonne,
Yet shall my love to thee be never done;
Ile run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and briers,
To come to thee, sole lord of my desires:
Short woing is the best, an houre, not yeares, 25
For long debating love is full of feares.
But, hearke! I heare one tread. O, wert my brother,