Nor to her bed [no] homage do I owe:
Far more, far more to you do I [decline].
45 O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
To drown me in thy [sister] flood of tears:
Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote:
Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a [bed] I’ll take [them], and there lie;
50 And, in that glorious supposition, think
He gains by death that hath such means to die:
Let Love, being light, be drowned if [she] sink!