If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it so
 With scorn and shame, that him it nourish'd not ;
     If he suck'd hers, I let him know
     'Twas not a tear which he had got ;
 His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat ;
 For eyes, which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat.

 I never stoop'd so low, as they
 Which on an eye, cheek, lip, can prey ;
     Seldom to them which soar no higher
     Than virtue, or the mind to admire.
 For sense and understanding may
     Know what gives fuel to their fire ;
 My love, though silly, is more brave ;
 For may I miss, whene'er I crave,
 If I know yet what I would have.

To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
     But not of such as pleases when 'tis read.
 Both are increasèd by such songs,
     For both their triumphs so are published,
 And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
 Who are a little wise, the best fools be.