Astrophel and Stella: 59

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Deare, why make you more of a dog then me?If he do loue, I burne, I burne in loue:If he waite wel, I neuer thence would moue:If he be faire, yet but a dog can be.Litle he is, so little worth is he;He barks, my songs thine owne voyce oft doth proue;Bid'n perhaps he fetcheth thee a gloue,But I vnbid, fetch euen my soule to thee,Yet while I languish, him that bosome clips,That lap doth lap, nay lets in spite of spite,This sowre-breath'd mate tast of those sugred lips.Alas, if you graunt onely such delightTo witlesse things, then Loue, I hope (since witBecomes a dog) will soone ease me of it.

© Sir Philip Sidney