though i thy mithridates were,

framed to defy the poison-dart,

yet must thou fold me unaware

to know the rapture of thy heart,

and i but render and confess

the malice of thy tenderness.

for elegant and antique phrase,

dearest, my lips wax all too wise;

nor have i known a love whose praise

our piping poets solemnize,

neither a love where may not be

ever so little falsity.