By Thomas Ford (1580-1648), from Musicke of Sundrie Kindes, Book 1, 1607.
Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renowne ye,
If now I be disdayned I wishe my hart had never known ye,
What I that lov'de and you that likte shal we beginne to wrangle
No, no, no, my hart is fast and cannot disentangle.
If I admire or prayse you too much, that fault you may forgive mee,
Or if my hands had stray'd but a touch, then justly might you leave me,
I askt you leave, you bad me love, ist now a time to chide me?
No, no, no, Ile love you still, what fortune ere betide me.
The Sunne whose beames most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,
And your sweet beautie past compare, made my poore eyes the boulder,
Where beautie moves, and wit delights, and signes of kindness bind me
There, O there where ere I go, Ile leave my hart behinde me.
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