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.