tinypoem

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Chiding that tongue that more hath more express'd.
As compound love to me, though alter'd new;
Or whether shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
O! though I love you so,
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
Or state itself confounded, to decay;
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
I see their antique pen would have express'd
As the perfumed tincture of the time-bettering days.