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CLI.
Love
is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who
knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle
cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults
thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do
betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in
love; flesh stays no father reason;
But, rising at
thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant
prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor
drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy
side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.
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