On his Mistris

By our first strange and fatall interview,By all desires which thereof did ensue,By our long starving hopes, by that remorseWhich my words masculine perswasive forceBegot in thee, and by the memoryOf hurts, which spies and rivals threatned me,I calmly beg: But by thy fathers wrath,By all paines, which want and divorcement hath,I conjure thee, and all the oathes which IAnd thou have sworne to seale joynt constancy,Here I unsweare, and overswear them thus,Thou shalt not love by wayes so dangerous.Temper, ô faire Love, loves impetuous rage,Be my true Mistris still, not my faign'd Page;I'll goe, and, by thy kinde leave, leave behindeThee, onely worthy to nurse in my minde,Thirst to come backe; ô if thou die before,My soule from other lands to thee shall soare.Thy (else Almighty) beautie cannot moveRage from the Seas, nor thy love teach them love,Nor tame wilde Boreas harshnesse; Thou hast readeHow roughly hee in peeces shiveredFaire Orithea, whom he swore he lov'd.Fall ill or good, 'tis madnesse to have prov'dDangers unurg'd; Feed on this flattery,That absent Lovers one in th'other be.Dissemble nothing, not a boy, nor changeThy bodies habite, nor mindes; bee not strangeTo thy selfe onely; All will spie in thy faceA blushing womanly discovering grace;Richly cloath'd Apes, are call'd Apes, and as sooneEcclips'd as bright we call the Moone the Moone.Men of France, changeable Camelions,Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions,Loves fuellers, and the rightest companyOf Players, which upon the worlds stage be,Will quickly know thee, and no lesse, alas!Th'indifferent Italian, as we passeHis warme land, well content to thinke thee Page,Will hunt thee with such lust, and hideous rage,As Lots faire guests were vext. But none of theseNor spungy hydroptique Dutch shall thee displease,If thou stay here. O stay here, for, for theeEngland is onely a worthy Gallerie,To walke in expectation, till from thenceOur greatest King call thee to his presence.When I am gone, dreame me some happinesse,Nor let thy lookes our long hid love confesse,Nor praise, nor dispraise me, nor blesse nor curseOpenly loves force, nor in bed fright thy NurseWith midnights startings, crying out, oh, ohNurse, ô my love is slaine, I saw him goeO'r the white Alpes alone; I saw him I,Assail'd, fight, taken, stabb'd, bleed, fall, and die.Augure me better chance, except dread IoveThinke it enough for me to'have had thy love.