120
Tixall Poetry.
Her speaking to is much more free
Then after that her hearers bee;
And her voice is soe sweete and cleere,
That she inspires love through the eare.
Tis vaine to thinke of a defence,
Since she hath charmes for every sence.
Then after that her hearers bee;
And her voice is soe sweete and cleere,
That she inspires love through the eare.
Tis vaine to thinke of a defence,
Since she hath charmes for every sence.
I must confesse, awhile I strove,
By reason, to subdue my love;
As saints sometimes 'gainst death doe pray,
Though tis to heaven the nearest way.
Tis Cloe only hath the skill
To make me blest against my will.
By reason, to subdue my love;
As saints sometimes 'gainst death doe pray,
Though tis to heaven the nearest way.
Tis Cloe only hath the skill
To make me blest against my will.
No will I soe much as indure
To think unconstancy a cure,
For were I unto that sin bent,
It now would prove my punishment:
Here to adore, I must confesse
Is better then els where successe.
To think unconstancy a cure,
For were I unto that sin bent,
It now would prove my punishment:
Here to adore, I must confesse
Is better then els where successe.
